Gradually
by ajayd
Summary: Remy is coping, but life keeps throwing curve balls. Who will be there for him? Slash eventually.
1. Home

Disclaimer: Not mine, nothing is. I have no original ideas. Marvel comics is god and owner of all.  
  
[Signifies author's translation: French 101. Lack of a translation means that it's already repeated in English.]  
  
---  
  
Ch.1 - Home  
  
Antarctica:  
  
Gradually, Remy became aware that something was not quite right - something besides the obvious, which was that the supposed love of his life had abandoned him to Antarctica's endless stretches of ice. After a brief debate with himself over whether he should simply lay on the ice until he died, he had picked himself up and, at a total loss at how to proceed, had attempted to assess the situation. That was when he became aware of a subtle, but growing change. It took him several confused moments before he realized, with some panic, what was happening. His walls were falling.  
  
Instinctively, he calmed himself, even before his mind came up for reasons why the collapse of his walls was not the great calamity that he knew it was... well, that he knew it would have been under normal circumstances. But these were not normal circumstances. Presumably, there was not another living thing for hundreds of miles, at least. In such a situation, the absence of walls could bring little harm to himself or others.  
  
And though nothing like this had ever happened before, Remy knew what had happened. He had realized some time ago, though contact with various telepaths, that his mental walls, if not mental abilities, were unique. Every telepath (and even non-telepaths who had been trained to be able to erect walls) he had ever come in contact with possessed walls supported by the strength of the individual who had erected. Remy's, on the other hand, rested on the strength of the minds surrounding him. Normally, this made his walls far stronger than those of others - strong enough to throw Psyloche out of his mind (once erected, for she only managed to slip in because he had temporarily lowered his walls) and strong enough to prevent any of the telepaths from suspecting much at all about anything.  
  
For all the good it had done. And now, with no minds surrounding him, his walls collapsed. It took about as long, he guessed, as it took the Black Bird to speed out of the range of his own mind. It had taken years to build those walls, and only minutes to evaporate them completely.  
  
Remy forced himself to walk and to think about survival, though he already knew it was hopeless. He was alone, abandoned on the ice planes of the South Pole. He was badly bruised, had no food, and was not dressed to withstand this type of environment, especially now that early dusk was hinting at even colder nights. Perhaps if his wrists did not bare Eric the Red's shackles, he could have charged something (charge quoi? de ice?) and created some heat, but as things were, that was not even an option.  
  
He fought the tears that threatened to escape his eyes. He had not cried for many years and he was not about to start now. But he didn't want to die, not like this. Not despised by the only friends he'd ever had and not at the hands of woman he loved. Still, he could see the strange justness in dying a criminal's death, and it comforted him, in some twisted way. Any other death simply would not have been. well, him.  
  
He had always been terrified of shackles, and, right before the trial, he had had to summon every ounce of self-control to maintain his composure as they had forced the bands around his wrists, preventing him from using his kinetic abilities. But now, they were almost comforting. There were a tangible sign that there was a reason that he would soon die on the frozen continent; for though Remy had been close to death innumerable times before, he could feel that there was something more significant about this time. For what he considered the first time in his life, he decided to give up and accept his fate.  
  
He sunk to his knees and hung his head. And he prayed... after a fashion. He didn't really believe in any god, but it was a ritual he had developed, and engaged in somewhat frequently as a young child (while still with the Antiquary) because he had found it comforting to pretend that someone listened. He had not prayed for many years, not since before the Massacre, but he would pray now, one final time, if simply to give himself the comfort of narrating his own end.  
  
With closed eyes and silent words: Oh, Remy, what a grande merde [big shit] you 'ave gotten yourself in. Alors, je crois que [I think that] dis must be le fin. Je suis presque heureux [I'm almost happy]. Am so tired, so fuckin' fatigué, it's not so bad to dormir, to sleep forever. At least de sufferin' will stop. Don't know 'ow much more of cette merde Remy could take. La morte ne peut pas être [Death can't be] as bad a cette merde vie [this crap life]. Remy really tried. Vraiment [Truly]. C'est seulement que je suis [It's only that I'm]. such a fuckup. Evert'ing 'as spun out of control, years 'appened trop vite [too fast], wit'out dere ever bein' any choices to make. Òu [where] could Remy 'ave gotten off dis chemin [ path]?  
  
Remy continue to think like this for many minutes more, carefully avoiding any concrete memories (the vast majority of which the more memorable were decidedly unpleasant), before opening his eyes to the near absolute blackness of night. It was only a matter of time (and not even a matter of very much time) before the cold killed him - he knew this and didn't even want to fight it. He laid down on the ice and stared up at the stars, which were absolutely amazing from the pole. He had never seen stars so bright (yet strangely unrecognizable to those natives, like him, of the Northern Hemisphere), though this was not saying a great deal. He had never really seen a proper night sky until he had been twelve, having never left the bright city of New Orleans until that year of age.  
  
He lay there for what seemed like a long time, feeling his body heat slowly drop. Long, frozen stands of hair dug reassuringly into his scalp as the painful cold in his fingers and toes passed to numbness. His mind relaxed and expanded to a degree never possible even in the remote presence of others, and he felt as if he stretched the entire expanse of Antarctica. Drowsiness crept into his consciousness and his eyes fluttered shut at short intervals. The last thing he saw before he slipped into blessed unconsciousness was a bizarre green light floating in his narrow field of vision, barely evoking even mild curiosity from his hazy mind.  
  
New York:  
  
Remy woke up to nothing less than madness. He didn't know how it happened, or what element came to him first, jarring him from what he presumed was sleep, but he suddenly felt as if he'd been turned into a living TV - with cable. He was receiving countless different emotions from countless different individuals, and they were bombarding him to such an extent that he cried out and grabbed his head, not that that would help. If he had been standing he would have collapsed. As it was, he rolled off the park bench, landing clumsily on the concrete. He could feel a mother's love, he could feel some teenager's self-hate, he could feel a murderous rage and some druggies' emotional high. There were many, many other feelings belonging to other people, but he tried to push them out.  
  
It was hard. He had never been in such a state - his empathy retained the sensitivity that Remy had worked hard to achieve, and yet he had no walls whatsoever with which to protect himself. He struggled desperately, knowing there was no way he could maintain his current state for very longer without actually and permanently going insane. With much effort he was able to erect some makeshift barriers, blocking out the onslaught with little more than determination and exertion. It was only then that he noticed an intense, all-prevailing ache in his body.  
  
He tried to calm his nerves, as well as his panic, but he knew that his makeshift barriers wouldn't last. He needed to get away from all these people before they gave out. And on that thought, it occurred to him that he hadn't a clue where he was. He stood on shaky legs and looked around him. He was a bit surprised, but he recognized where he was - he was in Central Park. He knew New York well and under different circumstances he would probably be both thrilled and amused to suddenly wake up to a bright morning in the Gande Pomme with no recollection of how he got there. But as the events of the previous. well, as the last remembered events of, he assumed, the immediate past (after all, his stubble was only thick enough to suggest that he'd been out for about five days) flooded his mind, it made his blood run cold and he sat down hard.  
  
Cradling his head in his hands, he tried to collect his thoughts. He had to get out of New York, but where could he go? The desires of his subconscious couldn't help but throw up the same suggestion it always proposed in response to that question, regardless of any realities - New Orleans. As always, he passed over that suggestion without even giving it thought. The more serious alternative was to go into hiding. He knew several locations not too far from New York where he could disappear and protect himself from the bombardment of emotions. They were excellent transfer points for goods being smuggled out of New York.  
  
This option was very tempting and all the panic in his mind called for this solution; but it was the impassive, rational voice of his mind that knew that this was not a permanent solution. He needed, above all, to rebuild his walls, and he needed minds to build them on. Memory, that bitch, suggested Sinister, but Remy didn't even consider it. to which Memory retorted: Westchester.  
  
He was filled with self-loathing at a wave of desire indicated that he wanted nothing more than to flee to the protection and respite that he associated with the Mansion; but he doubted that those things would still be on offer for him there.  
  
But he really wanted to go back. Back to his room, back to the place, back to the people, and it didn't even matter if they hated him, they were the only family he had left. He wanted to go back so much that he could accept their hatred, he even thought he deserved it. The bigger issue was whether or not they would accept him back - but he thought they would. The Professor would let him stay, he was sure, despite any objections of the rest. So he would go back because he hadn't been exiled. He'd been sentenced to death, but no one had ever said he couldn't come back to the Mansion if he managed to come back from Antarctica.  
  
There was no doubt in his mind that this was a completely irrational decision, but he didn't care. He was too tired and no longer had the will power to make a more rational decision. He stood and, with a superficial, self-imposed determination, he headed down the path out of park. Once on the street, it was a small matter to break into a car (a Mercedes) - smaller indeed, than driving would prove to do, as the latter was less engrained.  
  
Driving was hellish. When the traffic moved, it was bearable, but when it slowed to a still, the frustration of the drivers around would beat down on him with increasingly overpowering intensity. There were a few near misses, as he executed perhaps the worst driving of his life, but he did eventually make it out of New York; and, by keeping to the most obscure roads possible, the drive to Westchester was almost pleasant, if long, exhausting, and plagued with bouts of getting lost.  
  
Westchester:  
  
As Remy approached Westchester, he was in no mood to temper his behavior, though the emotional bombardment had lessened and though he knew he would have to. There was nothing he wanted more than to just drive up to the Mansion, walk in, walk up the stairs, and hide in his bed for as long as was necessary. However, he suspected that any attempt to execute that plan (with no deviation) would be met with resistance. First, he had to dump the car; then he had to deal with at least some of the X-men; then, maybe, he could crawl into bed.  
  
As he neared the limits of Westchester, he pulled off the road into the woods. He hadn't the mental or physical stamina to go through the effort of hiding the car perfectly, but he thought that he probably did a good enough job. He could come back later and blow it up, once his shackles were cut off (assuming dey will take dem off. dey are, after all, de ones who put dem on).  
  
He neared the gait on still shaky legs, eying the camera and wondering if anyone was currently paying attention to that particular monitor. If there wasn't, as he hoped, then there may not be a welcoming party waiting for him at the Mansion (waiting to kill 'im or kick 'im out). But there would have to be a confrontation with someone, as sneaking into the Mansion was probably not the best way to get back into the good graces of his ex- teammates.  
  
Merde, merde, merde. He hated himself for it, but the second his rational voice rejected the idea of sneaking in, he knew that that was exactly what he was going to do. It was like his decision to go to Westchester (and, indeed, like his decision, years ago, to go to Sinister), he was simply worn too thin to do anything else. He felt certain that he would break down into hysterics and lose all control of himself if he was forced to confront someone now; and so he purposely avoided the camera's field of vision.  
  
It was a small matter of getting past the perimeter fence. Getting into the actual Mansion was somewhat more challenging, but certainly not beyond Remy's expertise, even in his shaken state. He entered via a supposedly impenetrable window on the second floor (in the corridor - a window more accessible to someone scaling the wall), suspecting that most of the X-men would not be in there, it being the afternoon and all. He cautiously confirmed this suspicion by verifying the absence of emotion emanating from that story, though doing so only re-emphasized the weakness of his shields. They'd been crumpling the entire way from New York and it wouldn't be long now before he was once again left with no protection. Still, that would be more bearable now. A handful of minds wouldn't be enough bombardment to make him lose his grip on his sanity.  
  
The last few meters to his room (he gave silent thanks that his room, along with Logan's, were the closest to the window) seemed like the longest of the entire journey, but finally his fingers wrapped around the doorknob, as his other moved up to the key pad and entered his code. A powerful, soothing wave of relief overcame him as he stepped into his room, it looking exactly as he had left it (well, I 'ave only been gone a few days). He couldn't help but feel safer and he allowed an inner voice to assure him that everything would be alright now. He would sleep now - hopefully, a long, dreamless sleep like the kind that blessed the dead - and deal with everyone later. He ought to be safe and unnoticed until he made his presence known. The telepaths wouldn't know he was here unless they specifically scanned his room, and they would be provided with no reason to do so. Long years spent restraining his own thoughts and emotions had granted him the near-perfect control over empathic projections. These days, even the terror of his nightmares would be hard pressed to inadvertently flee his mind.  
  
Several hours later, Logan was storming down the corridor, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, towards his room opposite Remy's. He had just returned from Japan a few hours earlier and had somehow managed to repress the rage he felt at hearing what had happened to the Cajun in his absence. But his anger seethed underneath and he knew that it would not be restrained for long and that he pitied the unfortunates who would bare witness to its release. He also knew that he had enough self-control to wait until fucking Worthington and Rogue returned from scouting out Sinister's latest misdeeds to unleash his rage. What was more questionable was whether he had the self-control to not kill those worthless excuses for human beings when they did return.  
  
Logan was a man who only trusted himself, who knew only what he himself knew. For example, he knew Remy as the man (indeed, for the most part, the only man) who would drink with him, smoke with him, race his bike against him, and cajole him into playing poker. Remy was not afraid of him - they were birds of a feather - and he knew, from vague hints accidentally dropped over the years, that Remy's past was likely as dark as his own, but he could not take the accusations leveled at Remy at face value. He would make his own judgements and the facts that he had, the facts that he knew he could trust, refused to let him believe that Remy had orchestrated and led a massacre.  
  
He stopped outside of his door, about to punch in his entry code, when he noticed something that made him stop. There was a sent in the air - very faint, but the fact that it could be smelled at all meant that it had to be recent. It was Remy's smell, unmistakably; Logan could recognize that unique combination of spice and smoke and, well, Remy. There is no way that charismatic bastard managed to survive what those fucks did to him... is there? Antarctica, for Christ's sake. He'd seen Remy pull off some pretty incredible feats during their two years of friendship. Frowning, he silently moved across the hall to listen at the door. He didn't hear anything, though Remy's sent was somewhat stronger, so he placed his ear to the door and concentrated. A faint smile graced his lips as he heard breathing as faint, yet unmistakable as the sent.  
  
Remy's reflexes yanked him from sleep at the sound of a handful of loud knocks at the door and he quickly bolted out of bed. Merde, merde, merde. How had they found him out so quickly? Forcing his speeding pulse to slow, his mind gently reached out to identify who was outside of his door. Logan.  
  
"Come on Gumbo, I know you're in there." The voice was firm, but not too loud, and definitely belonged to Logan. For the first time since before the trial, Remy let a small smile grace his face. He wasn't fool enough to think that Logan would still want to be his friend after surely having been told the reasons for having been left in Antarctica, but perhaps he didn't sound enraged and simply the fact that he was speaking meant that he wasn't feral. He didn't dare hope for sympathy, but he perhaps he would be offered a milder, less dangerous hate than had been offered by the other X-men.  
  
He cautiously cracked the door and made eye contact with Logan. "Oui?"  
  
"Can I come in?" Remy heard no hostility in his voice, and after taking a long moment to verify that it was indeed concern he felt the older man projecting, he nodded and stepped away from the door, never taking his eyes off his visitor.  
  
Logan advanced into the room, and though it was dark, his acute sense of sight took several seconds to appraise Remy's condition. He looked awful. He had maybe a week's worth of stubble growth and he looked (and smelled) really dirty. Exhaustion was etched all over his face and body; indeed, he looked like he could barely stand as he obviously exerted a great deal of effort trying to still his shaking. But more those symptoms, he looked like a different person, not the Remy he knew. He posture was slumped and missing from face was that trademark grin, that aura of a smooth operator. He looked like a man who'd finally realized that he could win every battle and still lose the war; who'd realized (again) that there was only so much that could be accomplished through force of will. Had their actions done this to him or had they simply revealed what always lie beneath the bravado? Logan wasn't sure he even wanted to know.  
  
"Are you okay?," Logan whispered, trying to sound sympathetic, not an effect he'd ever mastered particularly well, but the sentiment came across anyway. The next words, however, came out underscored with a growl. "I heard what happened. How'd you..."  
  
Remy was shaking his bowed head, as he leaned against the wall. His voice, always so deep and powerful, was just tired now. "Je ne sais pas [I don't know]. Et... I don't really care. Dat's not de problem right now. I 'ave tomorrow to worry 'bout. Dunno what to do... Talk to le Professeur I guess, mebbe he'll let me stay."  
  
"Of course you're gonna stay." Logan was clearly angry now and he could feel his rage boiling up. Keep control, keep control... "Those bastards that left you are gonna be pay. Jean and Cyke are not too happy about what went down either."  
  
And Remy was shaking his head again. "Je ne veux pas... I, I don't want to cause more problems and I don't t'ink dat staying here is un bon idée. I just want to be able to stay here for a bit, until... Je suis plus forte, until... I am strong enough to leave again."  
  
Logan's concern sharpened. Was had Remy's ordeal done to him? Of course, it is unlikely that he'd come away from the experience unscathed, but he didn't look like he was sporting any permanent damage. Was he? Again he growled. "They had no right. This is your home too."  
  
"Non. I 'ave no 'ome. S'il vous plaît, don't argue wit me." He sounded so despondent that Logan didn't have the heart to argue with him. In fact, he was mildly annoyed with himself that his anger always seemed to dominate his every reaction; he really wished he still had the emotional arsenal to be able to offer the comfort that would obviously benefit Remy more than anger. Too many years of being kept alive by rage and hate had left Logan ill-equipped to reach out to others, though there had once been a time when he'd been a different person...  
  
When he finally spoke, he was almost proud of being able to infuse his words with a certain degree of concern, though he was also painfully aware of how inadequate it really was. "Is there anything I can do for you? Anything you need?"  
  
Logan was rewarded for his effort by a faint smile. Remy could feel Logan's concern buried under a mountain of rage - the intensity of the rage, however, threatened to make him ill, even if Logan's behavior indicated that it wasn't directed at him. He stood up straighter and offered up his shackled wrists. "Could you cut these off please?"  
  
Rage flared up again; Logan couldn't even remember the last time he'd had to repress his anger so many times in one night. "Christ. Of course." Logan's Accompanied by the sound of a soft metallic scrape, two sets of metal claws burst from the spaces between his knuckles. Somewhat awkwardly, he used them as scissors to cut the thick (and, damn, strong) shackles; as he accomplished this, he mumbled a string of derogatory comments directed, in turn, at Eric the Red, Warren, Bobby, Hank, Storm, and Rogue. At the mention of Rogue, Remy's hands began trembling, prompting Logan, once he snapped off the shackles, to peer into the Cajun's alien eyes for a long moment. He wanted so badly to ask what had happened, but Remy had never been one to share his secrets, and right now he didn't look like he had the strength to even if he had wanted. In fact, with the mention of Rogue, he looked like he might cry. So Logan put off the question and settled for whispering, "Are you alright?"  
  
Remy slowly shook his head, but kept his eyes down so that Logan could not the pleading expression that, though masked well by his face, still resided in those so-aptly-labeled windows to the soul. "Non. But it is not'ing I can deal wit now. Maintenant je doit dormir [Now I must sleep]."  
  
Logan nodded - two years with a Cajun drinking companion will do wonders for one's understanding of the French language, especially in its bastardized manifestation. He passed through Remy's door. "Good night Remy. Let me know if there's anything I can do for you. I really don't want to see those bastards get away with this."  
  
"Bon nuit, Logan," came the murmured reply. "Oh, et Logan, please don't tell anyone I am here. I will talk to dem in de morning."  
  
It was one of those horribly bright mornings that make one wonder what right the sun has to be so brilliant at any time before noon. Remy woke, feeling only moderately less exhausted than the night before, though his aching, bruised body had recovered somewhat. His sleep had been restless, and his dreams disturbing, mixing horrible memories with strange projections that infiltrated his mind from the dreams of his teammates. But Remy had a knack for running on empty, so quickly showered, shaved, and made himself presentable - more than presentable, in fact, as quick look in his full length mirror confirmed. If only he didn't possess the Devil's eyes.  
  
He lowered his makeshift walls and located all the people in the house. Scott, Storm, and Bobby were in the danger room, Logan was still asleep across the hall (Remy spared him a small smile, recalling his absolute refusal to get up before noon unless a real fight was scheduled), Hank and Jean were in the lab, and the Professor was in his study. He was both relieved and disappointed that he couldn't locate Rogue anywhere on the grounds. Warren wasn't around either.  
  
Given that he knew where everyone in the Mansion was and that they were all in rooms easy to avoid, Remy had no difficulty arriving at the Professor's study undetected. But before he even had the chance to knock, the Professor's telepathic voice spoke to him. Come in Remy.  
  
Remy was a little surprised, though in retrospect, he figured he probably shouldn't have been. He took a small moment to tighten his mental barriers, then entered apprehensively.  
  
Professor X sat, as always, in his wheelchair, parked behind his large, old, and expensive oak desk. Remy could sense. well, kindness emanating from him, and this time he wasn't surprised. He'd always known that the Professor was good man. "When did you.," Remy trailed off inexplicably, but Xavier understood the question.  
  
"Take a seat Remy." Upon doing so, the Professor continued. "It was late last night. I always personally scan the premises before I go to sleep and again when I wake, just to assure myself that everything is as it should be."  
  
"Oh, Professeur. Et, last night, was everyt'ing as it should be?" Remy hated himself for it, but he could feel the tears threatening to spill. He'd managed to avoid crying so far, despite a number of close calls, and he wasn't about to start now. He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't show his weakness, for not only empaths must shelter their feelings from the world. He was, however, doing a substantially better job a maintaining his poker face in front of the Professor than he had last night in front of Logan.  
  
Xavier sighed, a deep sigh that could only escape the lips of a man who'd spent the better part of his life trying to save humanity from itself. "Remy, of course you are welcome here, no matter what mistakes your past harbors. As long as they are, in fact, recognized as mistakes, and grave errors in judgment. I am actually quite relieved that you have showed up here, for I had feared you dead."  
  
"I almost was, monsieur." Don't cry, Remy LeBeau, you piece of merde!  
  
The Professeur nodded. "I have heard several different accounts of what happened, not all entirely honest, I thought. Would you tell what happened, Remy?"  
  
Remy laughed, short and bitterly, and it was the Professor's turn to be surprised; but Remy spoke anyway - at length, in fact. He spoke of how Eric the Red had orchestrated the trial. Of Warren's defense of him until he had learned of the Mauraders and the Massacre. He spoke too of Rogue, of how he loved her and had kissed her. Of how she was filled with hatred and disgust upon seeing the Massacre through his eyes and how she had flown him away, over the icy steppes of Antarctica, after the trial.  
  
She had asked him, her voice and eyes and face entirely devoid of emotion, what he thought was a just punishment for his heinous crimes. Remy, on the verge of completely falling apart, had responded that that was her right to decide, that he deserved the harshest punishment conceivable, for atrocities that were his responsibility. She had agreed, and promptly dropped him and left him, without even a look back.  
  
". and so much for l'amour [love]. I always know it was merde anyway," Remy concluded.  
  
Professor X leaned back and considered the young man. He sensed that he was telling the truth, though he'd omitted two essential points - mainly, what had actually gone down in the Morlock tunnels and how he had managed to survive and escape Antarctica. And now that he considered it, there was something else too. Xavier had never been able to get a good reading on Remy before, but now that he'd returned, he was both able to identify the Cajun's mental signature (as he had both last night and this morning) and able to confirm the Cajun's belief in the truth of his own words. His walls must've weakened. But why, how?  
  
The young mutant looked exhausted though, and Xavier didn't want to push him too hard. He clearly didn't want to speak of the Massacre and had purposely skirted around the subject; and he had never revealed to anyone why he had had such strong mental walls - walls that, even now, were stronger than those of most non-telepaths. Xavier figured that the only question that really needed answering now, was that how he had managed to return for Antarctica.  
  
But Remy shook his head. He had been thinking about this mystery, but had been more preoccupied with how he would emotionally and physically survive his nest encounter with Rogue. "Je ne sais pas. Vraiment. I don't know, I was dying. I was laying in the snow, slipping into unconsciousness. I saw a small green light, et puis [then], I woke up in Central Park."  
  
Xavier frowned, though again, he sensed Remy's honesty. It was his restlessness, seen in tapping fingers and heals, however, that revealed Remy's desire to flee his presence. Xavier took pity on the poor young man and relented. He himself did not wish to dig too deeply into the messy affair. A wave of his own fatigue and disappointment washed over him and he suddenly felt his own age. "Okay then. Why don't you go get some rest? I'll let the others know that everyone's just going to have to learn to get along. There don't seem to be any innocent parties in this odious business and I haven't the heart to assign culpability, if it were even possible. I can only hope guilty consciences will succeed where I have failed. Rogue, though, I will need to speak to."  
  
Remy stood and nodded, sadly taking in the Professor's suddenly haggard features. It seemed to him that he sucked the life out of everyone he came into contact with. He himself did not know where blame was deserved. He knew he deserved it, but he found it difficult to hold others' actions against them - he was simply too guilty and not enough of a hypocrite to point a finger at anyone but himself.  
  
"Merci, Professeur," he whispered, and slunk out of the room, leaving Xavier to his thoughts.  
  
Remy picked up some food on the way back to his room and spent the rest of the day in bed, alternating between sleep and concentrating on the hostility and negativity that permeated the Mansion. And it was not all directed at him either; there was plenty of general disgust and hate to go around. He did not know why he focused to intensely on the feelings of this (ex?) teammates. To his surprise and relief, his mental walls were already beginning to rebuild themselves, though he figured it would still be several months before he was able to get them up to their former strength; the combined force of his makeshift barriers and fetal walls was strong enough to deflect such undirected emotion, but he felt perversely drawn to it. It was the evidence of life, of humanity, evidence that it wasn't just him, alone in this endless mansion, afraid and cold. Sleep came poorly, fading into consciousness, blurring the lines between the freezing isolation of his dreams (nightmares?) and distressing, general. presence, of his waking moments.  
  
When not just absorbing the common negativity, he found comfort in focusing on Jean's emotions, which provided a breathtaking and relieving contrast. Her emotions were calm as she exuded sympathy and concern for Remy, and a constant background love for Scott. The others were more unsettling. Logan was consumed with anger and frustration, and the only comfort Remy could derive from his rage was in the fact that it was not directed at him. Cyke too was angry, and profoundly annoyed, and neither excluded Remy as a target - though at least he was not the sole target, as all those present at the trial seemed to infuriate him. Storm was hurt, deeply so. She felt betrayed and angry, and was mourning the death of the Morlocks all over again; and Remy hated himself for hurting her. Bobby and Hank were both hostile towards him, Bobby far more so than Hank, at the same time as feeling a degree of guilt (Remy postulated that the latter was probably due to the compliance in what could have resulted in his murder). But what was by far the worst was the absolute hatred that radiated off Warren and Rogue, who returned to the Mansion shortly after midday.  
  
Remy had felt it. They had returned to the Mansion quite pleased with themselves, there must have been a degree of success in their search for sinister locations (Hehe. Mon Dieu, I must be très desperate si je peux rire à ça [My God, I must be very desperate is I can laugh at that].) He felt the exact moment that Bobby had told them of his return. Rage had filled them both, but it was Rogue's unchecked vehemence and loathing that had finally caused him to consciously reinforce his walls and turn his attention from the maelstrom of negative emotions that infected the Mansion. Her rage was different than that of the others. Indeed, her entire emotional makeup was different from that of others; that had even been part of the attraction at one time - her passion, her impulsiveness, her fervor. He'd once thought of it as symptomatic of life, but now he feared it was more symptomatic of insanity. He feared her now, as perhaps unconsciously, he always had.  
  
With a shudder he turned his mind away from the negativity and once again fell into a restless sleep.  
  
Jean stopped by mid-afternoon in a vain attempt to offer comfort, or something. It was an awkward exchange, but, blessedly, short-lived, consisting primarily (on Remy's part) of staring expressionlessly, blinking owlishly on occasion, and mechanically claiming to desire solitude. It was, however, an interaction that required enough brain activity to bring him out of his empathic, sleep-like haze. But wakefulness, while a state free from nightmares, had its disadvantages, especially as he refused to leave his room. He was absolutely certain that he would be unable to face Rogue or Warren without displaying weakness; and he wasn't sure about the others either. And it wasn't just the frailty of his walls, he was feeling emotionally vulnerable too (though admittedly, this probably was partially related to the weakness of his walls), and he needed just a bit more time to resurrect his shattered bravado.  
  
He'd never had much pride or self-love to speak of, but somewhere along the way, he'd acquired something much better, in a manner. He had the ability to act confidently, and even arrogantly when the situation called for it. From a practical perspective, the only perspective that meant much to Remy, this ability was better than actually being confident, because it spared him the ignorance born of arrogance and granted him the perceptiveness born of doubt.  
  
He gazed around his room, attempting to find something that would hold his attention. As soon as his eyes fell on his guitar, he smiled (perhaps his first real smile since Antarctica), knowing that, if only for a short period of time, he'd found his diversion.  
  
He hadn't played in ages - maybe not in over a year, and he briefly felt guilty at neglecting the musical talent that Jean Luc had spent so many years diligently stoking. He plucked a few notes, meticulously tuned each string, then began in earnest. It was a set of chords he'd learned many years ago, and he never tired of them, as they seemed fantastically adaptable to any mood of frame of mind. After a few moments, he began improvising some lyrics, and his accent faded a little.  
  
"Hear now, ain't no sympathy for the devil... Not when your grave was dug by your own shovel. Oh future foreseen and past forgotten... I beg you to spare me the trouble of my mistakes misbegotten. And though the streets are dark with danger, I know I can't stay here, in this home where I'm a stranger and all I touch goes rotten with hate and fear."  
  
He stopped, then berated himself. This was the kind of merde that prevented him from being stronger, that indulged his weaknesses, and he was not someone who could afford to be any less strong than as strong as he could be. But he wasn't able to rest on these thoughts for more than a couple of seconds before being interrupted by a firm knocking on the door. "Remy?"  
  
Logan. He almost smiled again at the pang of loneliness that made itself known, letting him know that he should invite Logan in. Dieu, he was incorrigible. No matter how many times he got trampled on, he just couldn't seem to learn. Why couldn't he just be content to become a hermit and never expose himself to all the pain of humanity ever again? No, instead he kept coming back for more. Like Oliver Twist, timidly walking up with a bowl in his hands, asking in shaky voice for more pain please.  
  
Remy's thoughts took up enough time that Logan knocked again. "Remy? I now you're in there. No fooling me, I can smell you. Not to mention the fact that you haven't left your room all day."  
  
Remy sighed. "Come in den."  
  
Logan entered cautiously, poking his head in first. He emerged through the cracked door with a large plate of food. "I figured that you probably haven't eaten since you got back."  
  
"'aven't eaten since before Antarctica." Remy made a distinct effort to block out Logan's emotions (though he could tell just from Logan's expression that his words had provoked another surge of anger). He was growing weary enough of all the anger and negativity from everyone, whether directed at him or not, that it was becoming increasingly easy to return to his stance of not violating others' emotional privacy.  
  
"Well here then," Logan said, handing him the plate. The food didn't look terribly appetizing, but he was hungry and the food was definitely of the filling sort - an army French Fries, two hamburgers, coleslaw, something (more potatoes?) swimming in melted cheese, and a what he presumed was a large slice of apple pie. Remy began wolfing it down immediately.  
  
Logan would have smiled if it wasn't for the fact that Remy was unhealthily then. It was little wonder he was snarfing the food like a starving man. He forced himself to stop staring at his friend, his eyes falling on the discarded guitar. "I heard you playing before I came in..." The Cajun stopped eating, his fork halfway to his moth. "You sounded really good. I haven't the patience for music."  
  
The fork continued its journey to the Cajun's mouth. Remy nodded and, after swallowing, said, "Oui. It took me forever to learn how to play well. Eh, pas the guitar, mais my first instrument was de violin. Dat took forever. De guitar was plus facile [easier]."  
  
Then there was silence again as Remy returned to the task of shoveling food into his mouth. Logan very much wanted to know if he was alright, but he was pretty certain that asking Remy wouldn't get him an honest answer. As the comfortable, companionable silence began growing a bit more uncomfortable, Logan decided there was nothing else he could do now. It occurred to him to ask the Cajun if he wanted to blow off some steam in the Danger Room, or if he wanted to go drinking, but he didn't look strong enough to be up for much of either. So with a genuine farewell, Logan took his leave, and Remy was once again alone. He was, however, in somewhat improved spirits, though he thought much of this was probably due to the strengthening of his spirits. His depression was shifting into pensiveness and his indefatigable determination had returned (Dieu, even he was sick and tired of his determination; why wouldn't it just let him rot?).  
  
Fond thoughts of Logan drifted into his mind and comforted him. Wolverine had surprised him. He had not realized that he had had a true friend in the man, for he had thought (erroneously, as it would turn out) that Rogue was the only one mansion he had succeed in connecting with. On the other hand, maybe he hadn't. Maybe Logan was just behaving as he believed was right in the situation - friendship didn't have to have much to do with it. These thoughts sobered his fragile good mood, but unfortunately his determination was here to stay. He knew it didn't matter if Logan was a friend or not; he would continue on anyway, finding strength in himself as he always did.  
  
And he would leave, he decided. He finally felt strong enough to consider the future and consider it he did. He figured his walls would be back to their earlier strength (or, at least, strong enough) in under two weeks. Then... then he would leave. He thought somewhere remote would be a good idea, to get as far away from his failed life. Not just his failed life in Westchester, but his failed life in North America. He mused on the fact that all of his major failures had been in North America. Oui, best to leave the continent all together. But where to go? He briefly considered returning to Japan, for it was far away, but rejected the idea because he would have been more conspicuous there then he generally preferred to be. The obvious jump from there was Paris, where he had blended in perfectly and had had a fantastic time years ago. But no, he knew too many people in Paris, and in France generally, and he what he really wanted to do was start over entirely. His mind wondered to Russia and his thief fingers positively itched at the prospect. He would love to go to Moscow... but then he shuddered at the prospect of such cold. NON! Abruptly he decided that he did want to go to the Old World. He wanted some place new and still young and energetic. Australia came to mind and just like that it was decided. It was a surprise even to himself that he had never taken the time to go, but he was able to make the decision so easily that it almost seemed fated.  
  
Swirling thoughts of his new life in Australia gradually coaxed him into sleep.  
  
The next few days were all rather similar and, indeed, almost seemed to blur together. Remy spent most of the day and night in his room, intently ignoring the hostility that sporadically crashed against his shields. An inordinate amount of time was spent on the computer, first with the purpose of putting his affairs in order, but later with the purpose of what he lovingly called 'mischief' (a term he used when referring to activities that indulged his Robin Hood complex). Microsoft was deprived of a several million dollars, as were CitiBank, Nike, McDonald's, Paramount, and Disney. A number of charities, on the other hand, received substantial donations. A little known charity working to help street children in Louisiana received a particularly large and unexpected sum of money.  
  
Still, Remy had to venture out of his room occasionally, primarily to get food. Though he went out of his way to avoid Warren and Rogue, he used the others to test his walls, as well as his emotional strength. And he was quite pleased with himself. He could tell by their irritated faces (for he succeeded in blocking out their emotions) that he had managed to resurrect his cool, carefree mask. He knew they couldn't believe that he was still able to hold his head high and that his apparent lack of remorse, guilt, or humility only stoked their anger, but he refused to reveal any weakness. His guilt and self-hate were for private viewing and consumption only. So he would strut into the kitchen, gather his food as if no one else were there, and leave. He demeanor was almost as if Antarctica had never happened, except now he flashed no charming fake smiles and made no attempts at socializing. Logan stopped by his room from time to time, but their time together was strained. It was if Logan was looking for a way to get closer to him, but the wild man had no skills in this area and Remy presented him with no openings. Instead he counted down the days until he would leave. 


	2. The Search

Ch.2 - The Search  
  
Westchester:  
  
On the morning of the fifth day after Remy's unwelcome return from Antarctica, Professor X woke and performed his routine scan of the Mansion. He frowned when he could not locate Remy, first in his room, then anywhere in the Mansion or on the premises. Briefly he checked the night logs, confirming that nothing suspicious had transpired during the night. Knowing that Jean was awake, he reached out. Jean.  
  
Yes Professor?  
  
Remy's gone. Did he say anything about leaving?  
  
No... But I'm not surprised. Staying here must've been like living in a wolf's den. God... I wish it hadn't happened like this. Remy didn't deserve this.  
  
No, he didn't. Not that that ever seems to matter.  
  
Xavier was saddened by Remy's departure. In all his days working with mutants, Remy had been one of his greatest, if relatively unexplored challenges. The young man was so stubborn, so defensive, and so distrustful that he had never been able to get through to him; though he recognized that other demands on his time prevented him from dedicated the necessary attention to the Cajun. And he wanted to - not just because he wanted to help mutants but because, inexplicably, he knew that the Cajun harbored great hidden potential. He was stronger and skilled than he let on, and by failing to integrate him into the X-men, Xavier had done all mutants a disfavor.  
  
But he didn't rest too long on the loss, for it does little good to ponder each defeat when fighting a losing war. Defeats came by the bushel, and were a result of the nature of the fight, not the failures of the fighters. And maybe this was a blessing in disguise; after all, while not Remy's fault really, the hostility provoked by the young man had been poisoning the team. He took a trip to Cerebro, though he didn't expect to be able to locate Remy, as the Cajun's mental walls had always hid and protected his mind well. Resigned and having his expectations were confirmed, he went to tell the others.  
  
Reactions were mixed. Rogue and Warren had been ecstatic and had made comments so derogatory that Scott had actually felt obliged to reprimand them. Bobby was pleased, Scott and Hank seemed to think that it was probably for the best, and Storm had shown no reaction at all. Logan had remained silent and still, but several hours after the meeting he came knocking on the Professor's door. There, in Xavier's study, he gruffly spoke his mind.  
  
"With all due respect, I don't think Remy left. Voluntarily, I mean."  
  
"Why not?," the Professor responded, and Logan was relieved to hear interest and concern in his voice. A completely separate and independent part of his mind was commenting on how tired and old the man had become. It was like the last few weeks had aged him years. He hated to burden the Professor, but he would not let Remy be wronged again.  
  
"I had Jubilee blow the lock on his door. He didn't take anything with him; and I know for a fact that he is quite attached to some of that stuff. Especially the expensive arty crap. And his bike - it's still in the garage. He loves that thing and wouldn't've left without it. I don't think he left."  
  
"Remy has a lot of money and connections, so maybe he didn't feel the need to bring anything with him. It's not out of the realm of possibility, but there was nothing no sign of foul play in the night logs."  
  
"Isn't that in itself suspicious?," Logan argued. "I mean, wouldn't there be evidence of him leaving the Mansion?"  
  
"Maybe not. After all, he was able to get in undetected just a week ago, and he was in a much worse state then. Leaving in a similar fashion shouldn't have been too difficult."  
  
"But why leave in such a manner? I don't think he would sneak out like a criminal, no matter what Warren and that lot would say," Logan said, his voice shifting into a growl.  
  
But Professor X had his doubts. He conceded to himself that Logan probably knew the Cajun batter than he did, but he rather thought that disappearing without a trace would be quite in character.  
  
Logan read his doubt on the Professor's face, and it angered him. Indeed, over the last week he had grown to dislike the X-men more and more. He felt their behavior outrageous and unjustifiable. How could they abandon one of their own? How could they have so little sympathy for one who had risked his life so many times for them? How dare they pass judgement when they themselves had sinned and erred time and time again? He wasn't even sure himself that the Cajun hadn't simply up and left, but it didn't matter. He shouldn't have had to leave.  
  
"I will not let him be abandoned again," he snarled, stepping closer to the Professor somewhat menacingly. "Do you realize what the behavior of your X- men over the last week signifies? The end, that's what. It stinks. A certain line that should never have been crossed has been crossed. You no longer are in possession of the moral high ground, and that is a loss from which there can be no recovery. Not only was he left in Antarctica, but when he miraculously returns, giving everyone an undeserved second chance, he was received with hatred and disgust."  
  
Logan's words made Xavier feel mildly nauseous, for he recognized his own thoughts in them. Logan was right. Whether Remy had left of his own volition or not, a great wrong had been committed, and needed to be righted. But it would be difficult to make the others see this, and that was perhaps the biggest part of the problem. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "I will talk to Scott, but I doubt he'll want to spend the time searching for Remy, what with Sinister and all - "  
  
"I'll go by myself," Logan interrupted. "I'll find him. I just want a guarantee that it won't all be for nothing. I refuse to bring him back to this place if everyone is welcoming as they have been over the last week."  
  
The Professor nodded. Even if Remy never returned, the others had to be made to realize how their unforgiving behavior defined them. They had to be made to step back and look at what they had done, for it was surely nothing of which any of them could be proud. Except Logan. The animalistic man had proven the most humane of any of them and the Professor felt a pang of admiration. "We should talk to Scott."  
  
And talk with Scott they did.  
  
Scott was not happy. Though he had never been fond of Remy (disliking his cavalier attitude and general sociability), he realized that something unacceptable had gone down in Antarctica, but was at a loss as to how to deal with the situation. He would have preferred to just forget about Antarctica, the trial, and Remy altogether, but he also realized the inherent injustice and overall wrongness in that. And so though he was not happy about the idea of not having Wolverine around at a time when the X- men were rapidly moving towards a confrontation with Sinister, he was also relieved that Logan had provided him with a relatively painless solution to the Remy problem. Having Logan track him down would lighten the load on his conscience without having to involve the rest of the X-men, which would certainly have driven the team apart at this time where solidarity was needed. So Scott agreed.  
  
Unfortunately, Logan barely knew where to start looking. He knew the Cajun had been banned from ever returning to New Orleans, so the obvious connection was unlikely. He was aware, however, that Remy had been spending a good deal of time on the computer, as several times he had stopped by to find the young man sitting in front of the damn thing. His own affection for computers only extended to their usefulness as hurling objects. Jubilee, however, had an affinity for them and, while most of Remy's files seemed to be well encrypted, there were a number of revealing low-profile emails - particularly, a confirmation of a payment for a plane ticket from New York to Sydney. However, the date of departure was four days away. Though he still had his doubts that Remy had simply left, he decided that New York would, indeed, probably be a good place to start his search.  
  
Logan spent much of that night reading the small selection of weakly encrypted emails, hoping to find some hints or clues. He found little more that could shed light on Remy's disappearance; but, some time after Jubilee had finally left for bed, he did come across an email of particular interest. It was a reply from Remy's father (who's name was Jean-Luc, if he remembered correctly), dated from over a year and a half ago, followed by the original message (in surprisingly excellent English, though Logan had always known the Cajun to be well learned) from Remy.  
  
TO: R.  
  
Subject: RE: A New Home  
  
Oh Remy. I know you don't want to tell all that went wrong after you left New Orleans, but I also know what kind of person you are. I find it hard to believe that you could do something as awful as you imply. Besides, don't you think you have suffered enough already? I am glad you have found a new home, but you deserve better than enmity from these people. You are such a good person, and others would see it too if you would only let them. I know you think that what they don't know can't be used to hurt you, but have you ever thought that, if everyone knew, then you would not have secrets to be held against you?  
  
As for your nightmares, there is nothing I can tell you that I have not said before: Open up, tell someone, be reassured. Though, admittedly, this may not be the best idea if your environment is somewhat hostile. But you can't keep these things inside, it's not healthy; and your banishment and my duties here mean that I can no longer be there for you in the way that you need me. You must seek companionship and love elsewhere. Things here continue as always. There is another skirmish between Us and those Asses. It is not your fault, by the way (I know how you love to take the credit/blame for every bad thing that has ever happened). The whole Julian affair was just an excuse to renew hostilities. You're lucky you're not here, as it has all become rather vicious and, yet, tiresome at the same time.  
  
Love, J.L.  
  
---  
  
TO: J.L.  
  
Subject: A New Home  
  
Cher Papa: You wouldn't believe it, but after years of non-stop fucking up, I think I may finally have found the path to redemption. I cannot say where I am, though I'm sure you can find out through the network, but I can say that I am where I can do good, where I can make a difference, and where I can atone for my mistakes.  
  
I don't think the people here like me much though, but I suppose I can expect little else. And after years of being 'liked' by all the wrong people for all the wrong reasons, it's almost refreshing to be hated by the right people for the right reasons. I have, however, made one friend (at least I hope so). Though many of our past times are the same, he's not at all like me - he is strong, and brave, and honest. He doesn't play mind games, or any games at all. I wish I had the strength to be that way, though perhaps not so quick to anger. I think I would never doubt myself or be afraid if I were like that.  
  
The nightmares are becoming strange. They are very similar as they have always been, but now my mind does not find them so frightening and horrible. It is as though even my subconscious has normalized the pain and degradation. This greatly confuses and disturbs me.  
  
I regret that this letter is so morose. It is only that I need someone to vent to, and you are the only person in this world that I trust. I am actually doing better than I have since I left New Orleans. I have been given such a great opportunity here, it is going to take a lot more than friendly fire to scare me off. I love and miss you. Give my love Mattie and Henri.  
  
R.  
  
Logan considered the letter, not entirely sure how he should react to it. He was angry at the X-men for rejecting Remy from the word 'go'. He was haunted by Jean-Luc's advice to find someone to open up to, for Remy had followed that advice - he'd found Rogue and he'd opened up to her, and, of course, she'd tried to kill him for it. And, lastly, there was an almost forgotten warmth (accompanied by some remorse) in his rusty heart that came from knowing that it was he who Remy considered a friend.  
  
They had never talked about their friendship, and Logan sometimes wondered if the Cajun even thought of him as a friend. He hoped so, with some guilt, because he didn't feel as though he had really been there for Remy enough to actually be considered a friend. He was always off in Japan, or somewhere in Canada, or simply distant. Logan was too much of a loner to have close friends, much the way he had always assumed Remy to be. So if he was, indeed, the only friend Remy had in the Mansion, then that wasn't saying very much.  
  
But he turned his mind from these thoughts and feelings. He was going to make it up to Remy, he was going to redeem all of the X-men. He was going to find that boy, save him if needs be, and, in the process, save them all from becoming what they never wanted to be. Then, once wrongs had been righted, then, perhaps, he could work on being a good friend - something he could never remember being, though some vague confidence emanating from lost memories told him that he knew how.  
  
New Jersey:  
  
Within twenty four hours of receiving Cyke's permission (a formality really, as he would have gone even without it), Logan was in New Jersey, just across the river from New York City. He knew exactly where he was going, as at some point in the night he had realized that he had an address Remy had given to him around a year ago. At the time the Cajun had been planning on leaving the Mansion permanently, as him and Rogue had just broken up (for first of many times) and he was not dealing well with the hostility provoked in the rest of team by Rogue's false accusations against him. He had given Logan (and only Logan) this address, saying that if ever he was needed - for anything - this address was the way he could be reached. Of course, Remy had never managed to leave, as Rogue wasn't finished with him yet; and in retrospect, Logan wish he had. It would have spared the Cajun a year of pain, rejection, and mind fucks.  
  
The neighborhood was run down and the few people on the street looked haunted. He pulled his bike into the pathway in front of the boarded-up house that sported the same address as the slip of paper (which had remained forgotten in Logan's wallet for a year now). The house was even more decrepit than the others on the street and, from the outside, there was no sign of life. The front door was boarded closed and, in the interests of being as unobtrusive as possible, Logan walked around the house to find another entrance, fear in his gut that whoever had once lived here lived here no longer. But no. the house smelled too clean to actually be uninhabited and there was a definite sent of. a human, female.  
  
The back door was not boarded-up. Indeed, it was not even locked. He cautiously opened the door and passed through, finding himself in a small, clean, and completely unfurnished room. Frowning, he called out, "Hello! Anyone home?"  
  
Almost immediately a strong woman's voice responded. "I'm in the basement! Come on down!"  
  
It wasn't to hard to find the basement door in the small house and Logan promptly descended a narrow staircase towards a the warm light of the basement. The basement was well furnished, not in the sense of quality, but it was comfortable and homey. A woman, perhaps in her mid-twenties with ragged blond hair, stood in a far, though well-lit corner. She had a worn bandana tied around her eyes and a shotgun in her hands, lowered but definitely pointed in his direction. Logan tried to speak, but she beat him to it, her voice laced with a soft accent. "Don't worry, it's only a precaution. I doubt you're here to cause trouble, so as long as you don't make any sudden movements, there is no reason any violence has to go down."  
  
Logan almost smiled. His gut already liked this woman, and Logan tended to have a great deal of faith in his gut. "You're right, I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here because I'm looking for Remy."  
  
At that the gun was lowered entirely, and a smile appeared on her face. "You must be Logan then."  
  
"That's right. Who are you?"  
  
"Someone who can help you find Remy."  
  
"Where is he then?"  
  
Her brow furrowed briefly before she spoke, "Not dead anyway. But I'm not sure I should it would be entirely appropriate for me to tell you where."  
  
"Why not?," Logan growled.  
  
"The circumstances under which Remy instructed me to allow you to find him are no longer applicable. Care to tell me what the new circumstances are?"  
  
It was Logan's turn to frown. He knew the truth would be somewhat incriminating and unlikely to persuade the woman; but he hadn't the patience to outright lie. But was she trustworthy. "Can you convince me that I should trust you with the truth?"  
  
She laughed at that, nodding. She gestured towards a round table near a wall. "It looks like there is a long conversation that needs to be had."  
  
Warily, but with a sense of trust steadily growing on both sides, Logan and the woman sat down opposite each other. The first topic covered was the issue if how the woman, who finally introduced herself as Rixt (and placed the origins of her accent in South Africa), was be able to locate Remy. Rixt explained that she her mutant factor had manifested as an ability to "see" humans (and, to a less developed extent, animals) according to their position on the space plane. This ability was not as useful as one would hope as she could only identify, and therefore locate, individuals with whose biological signatures she was already familiar.  
  
"Biological signatures? So it's a telepathically based ability?," Logan asked.  
  
"No," she replied shaking her head. "If it was, I wouldn't be able to locate Remy. His mental walls are simply too strong and too, well, camouflaged. What I do is recognize living tissue, though I've trained myself to pay attention mostly only to human tissue. I am familiar with the peculiarities of Remy's tissue so I'm able to locate him amidst six billion other people."  
  
"So you can see even the way I position my body?"  
  
She nodded, though adding that she could only do so within reasonable distances, and Logan ventured to ask why she wore a bandana over her eyes. She explained that she had been blinded as a child by some 'unsavory officials' back home in South Africa. After a pregnant moment of silence, Rixt turned the conversation towards Remy. With reluctance, Logan explained about Antarctica, about the rest of the X-men, about himself, and about Remy's recent disappearance. Rixt listen the entire time in tense silence. When Logan finished, there was a long pause and from the look in her eyes, he could tell that she was not happy.  
  
"You've all really fucked up. Remy is. precious. To hurt him is, well, to hurt a child, an innocent. He's had so much suffering already and whatever actions he may be responsible for, his intensions were always in the right place."  
  
Logan was concerned about the direction this conversation was heading and he feared she would refuse him. But she took a ragged breath and began differently. "Remy really likes you. He has. many great things to say about you. And he is usually an excellent judge of character and you seem like a good man to me as well. I just. I just want to make sure that I am delivering him into the hands of someone who loves him as I do. Someone who will protect him and believe in him, for these are the things he needs."  
  
Her voice was growing strained with conviction; then she abruptly asked, "Have you ever seen his scars?"  
  
Logan nodded. Indeed, sunbathing had been one of Remy's favorite pastimes during his two summers at the Mansion. Anyone who took a look at him (and most did, even if reluctantly, as scantily clad embodiments of sex appeal are generally hard to ignore) would be unable to not notice the scars. Though many were faded with time and sun, some were obviously more recent.  
  
"Yeah, well, some of the more recent ones he did to himself. After the Massacre. well, Remy's forte has always been the guilt department. As long as I've known him, he's never thought very highly of himself and the whole Massacre thing. it nearly killed him too. The guilt almost destroyed him and any value he held on his own life was gone. He started taking the most dangerous assignments, the one's no one else would take - breaking into government installations and stuff. He was careless with his life, purposely putting himself in the way of danger and harm. And, inevitably, it almost killed him. After that, he came to stay with me and to physically recover, and I took it upon myself to help him recover his self as well. I guess I need to know that that's what you will help him do now."  
  
Again, a pause, as Logan collected his thoughts. "I have failed him, I know. Not just in Antarctica, when I wasn't even there, but even before. I sensed how much he hurt. We would drink and smoke and gamble and hell- raise, but I could tell by how relaxed he was with me, just how unhappy he was generally. I dunno, I guess I thought he was like me - a loner who'd do a better job of nursing his own wounds than anyone else ever could. But even that I cannot say in all honesty. I knew. I knew that wasn't. emotionally independent, I guess. Words hurt him more than sticks and stones, though he'd never show it. Rixt, please tell me where he is. I do believe in him and I do want to protect him. I want to give him a chance to build himself up as strong and magnificent as I know he can be."  
  
Rixt nodded. "He's in Mexico." 


	3. The Past

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I still own nothing. Nada. Zip. Marvel Comics is still God.  
  
Warning: To everyone's displeasure, I'm sure, there is a rape scene in this chapter; and though not overly graphic, it is not for the weak of heart (or stomach, or emotional constitution, or.). You get the point.  
  
Thanks: To my reviewers. Point-specific reviews are especially appretiated. Hope this chapter doesn't change your positive opinions. I wish I had the will power to write what is wanted, but the muses only give me the will power to write what I want.  
  
[Signifies author's translation. Yes, it's time to learn some French.]  
  
Ch.3 - The Past  
  
First he checked in with Cyclops, informing him of his intention to go to Mexico City. Rixt had given relatively good positional information on Remy - he was in a suburb of the capitol city, in the direction of the mountains. Still, it wasn't enough to find Remy if he didn't want to be found, and for this reason, Logan guiltily hoped that the young thief had, in fact, been kidnapped.  
  
So he left his bike with Rixt, swearing to be back for it, and caught a plane for Mexico City. The place was a hole and he detested it immediately. It was dirty, smelly, polluted, hot (in the worst kind of way), and packed with people. Within an hour of disembarking the plane, he was already having to restrain his impulse to impale the obnoxious locals - particularly those who would approach him trying to sell crap no Mexican would ever buy, as he was obviously a foreigner.  
  
In a dubious twist of luck, however, Logan did not have to spend very long looking for Remy. Within ten hours of flying into Mexico, he was shot in the neck with what he would later conclude was a tranquilizer dart, and when he woke, the question of Remy's disappearance was answered. And it was not a pretty sight.  
  
The first thing that came into focus upon his groggy awakening was the faint humming of an energy field. Logan slowly opened his eyes, trying to accustom them to the unnaturally harsh light of his. cell. He quickly sat himself up and took in the horrible little chamber he'd been placed in. God, not again. Then his eyes travelled past the only side of the cell that was not a wall (though his ears told him that this space, like each of the walls, sported an energy field). In a cell opposite him was Remy, sitting on the cement floor, wrapped in a blanket, and watching him (recognizable mostly by his almost glowing eyes). When their eyes met, Remy smiled. "Bonjour, mon ami."  
  
But the smile faltered. "Dough Remy est désolé que [is sorry that]. you are waking to find yourself ici [here]."  
  
Logan was still recovering from the shock of suddenly finding himself where he was, and all he could think about was how much French he'd learnt since becoming friends with Remy. Trying to collect his thoughts, he asked, "Where exactly is 'ici'?"  
  
"Sinister's lair," answered the dead voice. Logan felt a wave of adrenaline and hostility, his muscles tightened involuntarily and the hair on his arms and neck pricked up. His eyes narrowed to inspect Remy, but the blanket hid most of him - the Cajun had pulled it over his head, so that shadows hid most of his face. He could, however, make out a bloody gash in the place where Remy's graceful left eyebrow usually was.  
  
"Are you. okay?"  
  
"As well as can be expected, Remy suppose." But Logan didn't miss the shudder that ran through his body, and he was concerned by Remy's failure to refer to himself in the first person - something he rarely did, even in times of distress. When had he heard Remy refer to himself that way before?  
  
"What did they do to you?," Logan growled.  
  
There was a pause. "Dey're gonna torture you," Remy finally answered. "Maybe. Ils veulent savoir ce que vous savez [They want to know what you know]."  
  
A guilty look crossed Remy's face. "Sinister. he took me because he knows dat Remy am de only one dat knows de Mansion's weaknesses. He 'as some sort of psychic dat can. expose your mind. So dat dey know everyt'ing. about moi [me], and everyt'ing Remy know about de X-men." The Cajun hung his head.  
  
Logan felt his blood run cold. If Sinister had access to all that Remy knew, to a greater extent than most of the other X-men, himself included, then the X-men were in very serious danger. Logan had no doubt that Remy knew more about the X-men's (not to mention the Mansion's) weaknesses than probably anyone else it the world. It was what the thief was trained to look for, to aim for, to strike at when the opponent was unsuspecting. He'd never thought of it as cowardly, as Warren and others had; he knew it was a talent bred out of survival as much as of training, and that it was not cowardly to meet one's opponents on same level that they attacked. Cowardice was one thing, winning (or merely surviving) was something else entirely.  
  
"We have to get out of here," Logan scowled. Remy just nodded, and it was then that Logan noticed something bulky and metallic poking out from Remy's blanket at the neck area - a Genoshan collar. It angered him, though he knew it was to be expected.  
  
Suddenly, he heard the sound of footsteps. He glanced at Remy and was irritated to still find the man's head down. Indeed, he remained entirely motionless even as Sinister and another mutant Logan didn't recognize came and stood in front of Logan. Sinister smiled a tight, emotionless smile. "Ah, Wolverine. We've been waiting for you to wake up. I've been wanting to thank you for delivering yourself into our hands. Gifts are always appreciated. Though I didn't honestly think anyone would come after that faithless creature."  
  
"What do want?," Logan snarled.  
  
"Well, we got pretty much everything we need from our weak friend here. He was very useful, but then again, that's why we chose to take him. We really didn't think you'd mind - he didn't think you would either, actually. But I suppose there's no reason not to see what you've got rattling around in that ugly head of yours. That's what he's for," Sinister said, with a nod at the other mutant. The other mutant was massive - tall, muscular, and big boned, and he looked like a real mean mother fucker. His skin was tined blue and he sported a deep, ragged scar on his right cheek. There was a nasty, determined sneer on face (revealing some broken and very sharp looking teeth) and his eyes glinted like that of a predator. But his voracious glare only rested on him briefly, as he turned to look, with much more interest, at Remy. Sinister noticed too, but he seemed quite indifferent.  
  
"Take as much time as you need. We have plenty of time," Sinister said casually, turning and walking away.  
  
Logan saw Remy trembling in his cell and it enraged him. His claws extended and he stood as close to the energy field as possible and snarled, "Don't you touch him, you fucking animal."  
  
The monster sneered again. "Too late."  
  
The monster touched the key bad and the energy field of Remy's cage went dead. Remy scrambled to feet, trying to position himself in a battle stance, but he had several broken ribs, a bloody gash below his left breast, a broken arm, and what felt like some internal damage - all of which was displayed to Logan as the blanket dropped to the floor, revealing his naked and badly beaten body. The monster chuckled. "I'm gonna enjoy this. Again."  
  
Logan snarled, he could feel the rage building, bordering on insanity. He knew he was going feral, but was already too far gone to try or even want to calm himself. He began pacing back and forth, watching helplessly as the scene unfolded.  
  
Remy tried to fight, he really did, but it was hopeless. He was injured, had lost a lot of blood, and hadn't eaten for several days. Maybe he would've had a chance if there'd been somewhere to run, but there wasn't. He managed to dodge the monster's first punch, aimed at his face. He punched back with his good arm, hitting the sick fuck's face, then followed with a powerful kick. But the kick put a nauseating pressure on his ribs and insides, and the delay that caused allowed the monster to slam an oversized fist into his face, followed by one to the gut. He fell to his knees, hating himself for his weakness. He wanted so badly to fight to the death so that all that could be raped was his dead body, but he simply hadn't the strength. In the end, it was easier to be raped than to force his tortured body to fight anymore.  
  
And raped he was. As Logan howled (completely beyond rationality at this point) and flung himself at the energy field, the monster grabbed a fistful of Remy's hair so that his neck arched back unnaturally. The monster's acrid body stench filled Remy's senses and he felt himself retch. "Isn't it funny how it always comes back to this with you?"  
  
Remy whimpered and the monster chuckled, shoving Remy's head to the ground with a shuddering crack. He pushed the Cajun's head against the junction of the wall and the floor to get leverage, then pulled his hips up to him. Remy tried to kick out, but it was a weak effort that only brought amusement to his attacker. The monster promptly open his trousers and shoved himself into his victim.  
  
Remy stifled a cry of pain as a familiar burning pain filled him. He felt the familiar collapsing as his barely healed insides gave way to the intruding presence. He felt a warmth inside him as his own blood lubricated him and eased his pain only to the extent that he no longer thought he would pass out (a disfavor actually). But worst of all, he felt the sick bastard's mind. He had been surprised to learn that his Genoshan collar was not entirely capable of suppressing his empathy (indeed, only his shields seemed to be affected), and while he'd hoped he could use this to his advantage, he soon wished that the collar was entirely effective; for far worse than reliving the horror of being raped as a child, was experience the thrill of the rape through the mind of the rapist.  
  
As a child, his mutant talents had not manifested yet, and being raped was just that (though he preferred to think of it as prostitution instead of its less empowering interpretation). But this was far worse. He could feel the monster in every way. He really was insane - the monster got off on pain, from wherever it came. Remy had been able to feel his arousal when the monster had invaded his mind days ago, making no attempt to slip in, simply forcing himself in and ravaging his mind. That too had been worse than rape, for it brought with it the fear that the monster would wipe his mind entirely, of which Remy was sure he was capable.  
  
Remy forced himself to go numb, only slightly unnerved at how easy it was for him to slip back into the learned behavior of his childhood. He'd had so many nightmares, had spent so much time hating himself, that somewhere along the way the horror had almost been normalized. He didn't even have the energy to be disgusted with himself, focusing instead on blocking out the monster's emotions - the lust, the pleasure, the glee, the malevolence, the madness. The monster was truly, undoubtably insane. Merde, de pain.He focused on the pain in his neck and skull and his head hammered into the wall with every brutal thrust; anything to ignore what was happening to him.  
  
The monster wasn't at it for too long and he came within ten minutes, biting his jagged teeth into Remy's shoulder, and his semen burning Remy's torn insides. Then he pulled out of Remy, allowing him to collapse in heap on the floor, and with a hard kick to the Cajun's collarbone, he turned his attention to Logan, who was looking a little worse for wear. He had repeated thrown himself against the energy field until finally the pain had jolted him from his feral insanity. Now he crouched on the cell bunk and growled at the monster who approached him.  
  
"Don't worry," the monster said with a malicious laugh. "The little whore's used to it. Am just reacquainting him with who he really his. And now that I've worked up an appetite, it's time for the main course."  
  
It took every ounce of will power for Logan to restrain himself from once again running at the energy field. He wanted to KILL. But the monster just smiled at him with satisfaction on his lips and derangement in his eyes. And then Logan noticed something that quickly brought on an uncommon panic. There was a pressure scraping at the edge of his mind and Remy's earlier words came back to him. Some sort of psychic dat can expose your mind. NO! The pressure began to build, then there was a rush of pain - no, of agony - like a damn breaking. Logan fell off the bunk to floor, clutching his head, roaring in anger/pain. It was a pain like none he had ever experienced, as if every cell in his brain was being ripped apart, as if every nerve was on fire; but there was an emotional pain to it too, as though he was mourning the passing of everything that had ever meant anything to him. Logan was good a physical pain, but this was something altogether different, and he found himself, uncharacteristically, loosing consciousness, but the torture didn't end. He felt as though he was going insane.  
  
But then suddenly the pain lessened. He could feel the brutal assault on his mind continue, but somehow it had been numbed, displaced. Remy! He felt another mind, one that was not causing pain, one that was drawing pain away through a mental bridge; and he didn't know how, but he recognized the Cajun's mind. He didn't want the Cajun to absorb his agony, to add Logan's pain to his own, but he couldn't refuse. Hell, he didn't even know how to push the Cajun out of his mind even if he'd really wanted to.  
  
Eventually the pain subsided, leaving Logan numb to the point that stringing thoughts together was difficult. He forced his eyes open and registered a large, mean looking man walking away from him, but it took him several long moments to recognize him and even longer to react. "Remy," he croaked in a hoarse, almost exhausted voice, his eyes trying to focus of the young man.  
  
Logan felt a wave of nausea as he finally was able to focus on the thief. He was curled up, fetal style, his face covered in blood and his body occasionally racked by mild convulsions. "Remy!"  
  
But Remy did not answer, and Logan's energy was failing him, so he followed the Cajun into unconsciousness.  
  
Time past, but there was no way to know how much. Logan had awoken, but Remy still did not. There were no more visits from their captors and Wolverine was growing exceedingly hungry, the water from the sink only dulling the ache temporarily. He spent the time pacing his cell and worriedly watching the Cajun, who lay as dead, except for the faintest rise and fall of his chest. Logan didn't know what to do, and it frustrated him to know end. As far as he could tell, there was nothing he could do. And his mind was playing tricks on him too - it felt weakened, violated, deprived of its normal sense of invulnerability. God, this cell was driving him batty.  
  
Remy did eventually wake up after what Logan would have guessed was around a dozen hours. Logan jerked to attention as the Cajun shot into a sitting position, before turning to his side a dry heaving for several endless minutes. When his body finally calmed, he looked up into Logan's eyes; but Logan was at a loss for words. Remy looked barely strong enough to survive a few more days, and Logan knew that if he wasn't separated from the young man by two energy fields, he'd be able to smell the death on him. But it was the despondent look in his eyes that finally made Logan speak up, "Remy, I. Thank you."  
  
Remy nodded and again silence stretched. He eventually gathered enough energy to crawl over to his blanket, where he promptly lay down again and curled himself into a ball. And Logan watched helplessly. Immeasurable time past, at least a couple of hours, before anything further was spoken. "Logan?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Are we gonna be rescued?" He voice was weak and soft.  
  
Logan thought about that for a moment. He'd told Cyke that he was going to Mexico City. Would they come looking for him when he didn't report in? "I don't know. But they do know that I, and probably you, are in Mexico City."  
  
There was no response, but Logan didn't want to lapse into silence again. "Remy?"  
  
"Oui?"  
  
"Are you a telepath?"  
  
"Non. Je suis [I am]. an empath, je crois [I think]. I feel other people."  
  
"Is your empathy still working?"  
  
"Oui. But I can't control it de way you t'ink. I can't really manipulate people's t'oughts or feelings. And mes walls are weak. Ne peut pas [Can't] protect myself." His voice was devoid of emotion, but, surprisingly, it almost made Logan want to cry.  
  
"Why didn't you tell us?" But Remy took so long in answering that Logan answered it himself. "You didn't trust us, did you?  
  
"Everyone would've thought I was manipulating dem. But de trut' is dat I can barely control it, and if dey knew dat, dey would not trust me, and I would've 'ad to leave, but Remy did want to 'ave to do dat." Still he remained perfectly motionless.  
  
"I'm so sorry that this happened to you. You didn't deserve it, none of it." But Remy didn't respond. He was past caring if he deserved it or not. This endless torture - one horror after the next - was simply his life and it is truly amazing what someone can get used to. Somehow, he'd gotten used to the constant suffering, to having every joy overshadowed by pain, and, somehow, he could take it in stride. Remy thought himself weak, pathetic, disgusting, but he didn't care; life goes on. though maybe this time it wouldn't.  
  
But still Logan would not let him retreat back into himself. "I wish I'd known."  
  
His voice was kind, but it angered Remy, giving him a flush of energy. He barked out a dry laugh. "But you did know. Did you never listen to Warren? Remy is a slut and a whore, he says. And it's true -"  
  
Logan tried to interrupt, but Remy wouldn't let him. He wanted to use his wave of energy to speak before he no longer could, though his voice was already loosing its forcefulness and his mind was growing cloudy. "Non. Ecoutez-moi [Listen to me], Logan. Remy will explain dis only once. Warren was absolutely right. As a child Remy was a whore to stay live, as an adult he was a slut so dat he could feel alive. And dat's what made Rogue so easy to love. Remy loved her anyway, but not being able to touch her. You don't know 'ow tempting dat was for me - to prove to myself dat Remy could be loved wit'out sex entering de picture. And dat, Remy t'ink, is mostly why she 'ates me. When she touched me dat day, she could tell dat Remy didn't even want to have sex wit her, and she 'ated me for dat. Remy don't blame her, but he did love her. I, I did love her. But she succeeded in killing me in Antarctica. Fool Remy once, shame on you. But there will be no more fooling me. No more shame on me. No love for me. But Remy understands. You a bitch, vraiment [truly], but Remy understands."  
  
His voice had faded to almost a whisper and Logan saw his eyes drooping shut. He wanted to say something, but he thought it better to let Remy sleep (he had gotten a feeling, towards the end of his monologue, that he was bordering on the edge of delirium). Besides, he didn't know what to say. It frustrated him that he was so poor at articulation.  
  
Eventually Sinister and the monster returned. Logan growled at them, though with less energy than before, and Remy showed no reaction at all, remaining in fetal curl facing away from the open wall of the cell. In return, both antagonists ignored the Cajun in favor of Logan. Sinister spoke first. "Well, how are you on this fine day Wolverine?"  
  
"What do you want?"  
  
Sinister's face broke into a tight smile. "Absolutely nothing, that's just it. We have everything we want from both of you. Still, no need to waste. Now that Remy is weak enough, Morgan" (Logan couldn't believe the monster had a name.) "is going to wipe his mind, so we can at least use him for. experiments. Don't worry, we'll do the same to you when you've descended into such a state."  
  
Logan didn't have the energy to go feral, but his anger was so great he could barely speak coherently. "You. fucking. bastard."  
  
But they turned away from him. Logan heard Sinister say, "Remy, Remy. You shouldn't have betrayed me. You could have been one of my greatest. and now you'll be nothing."  
  
And with that, Sinister walked away, but Morgan the Monster remained still, his back towards Logan. Logan launched himself at the energy field, if for no other reason than to not feel like he wasn't doing anything; but the other mutant ignored him, focusing on Remy's unmoving body. which suddenly jerked, then began weak convulsions. There was barely the time for Logan to register the movement before he felt a stab in his mind - it hurt but it felt of a familiar desperation and panic. Remy!  
  
Wolverine calmed his mind, the way he did when trying to 'speak' with Jean, and tried to make his mind as inviting as possible. As much as he hated and was suspicious of psychic abilities, Remy had been there for him and he would damn himself to hell before failing to be there in return. Almost immediately, he felt pieces of Remy's mind cascade into his own. There was no pain for himself, though he could somehow sense through the connection that whatever part of Remy's mind that was retained in his body was in unfathomable agony. Logan was extremely disoriented; his mind felt full, overloaded with foreign personality, foreign emotions, and foreign memories. For a moment he had to struggle to remember who he was. But then he thought he understood what Remy was trying to do - he was trying to save something of himself by storing part of his mind in his friend's. And Logan was more than willing. Indeed, despite the disorientation, he was deeply relieved, for he thought that Remy's death (for that is what the monster was trying to accomplish) would surely drive him permanently feral, as well as permanently insane. His muddled mind was more tender than it had probably ever been, cradling the pieces of the Cajun's broken mind in his hour of need.  
  
Logan tried to gather his thoughts. He needed to stay in control of himself if that monster was to remain unsuspecting. For the most part, Remy's mind was unobtrusive, like a comatose presence. It seemed to Logan that most of Remy's conscious personality had remained in his own body, and what hadn't lay dormant in some crevice of Logan's mind. No influence or control was trying to be exerted upon Logan. Rather, it was Remy's memories that kept demanding attention, and while the Canadian tried to ignore them, they quickly became overwhelming and Logan could do little but sit frozen and watch as chunks of Remy's life flashed before his eyes.  
  
He was Remy, back before he was Remy LeBeau, back when he was a child - running, running, hiding. Thieving, whoring, pain, FEAR. Fear of being raped and killed, fear of being robbed and killed, fear of just being killed for being a mutant freak, fear of staving to death. He couldn't remember how he'd ended up on the streets, but it didn't matter; it felt as though he'd been there forever. He was alone, so alone, even the other street children avoided him because was the devil's child, but he didn't know any other way, so it did not plague him as it would in later year. No, it was the fear that haunted and tortured him, that drove him on and kept him alive. It was fear that sent him to New Orleans' Bourbon Street late at night, looking for some pervert with some cash to spend. Fear that urged him on, refusing to let him give up and just die already. Dieu, and the all- consuming hunger.  
  
Until the day he tried to pick the wrong pocket and had been caught. Years of living of the street had made him, even then, an excellent thief, but the years were catching up with him. Somewhere along the road he picked up a disease or two, and had been getting steadily weaker over the last few weeks. He was having trouble breathing and thinking and all this was making it difficult for him to get food for himself. But, luckily, the wrong pocket turned out to be the right pocket. Jean Luc took one look at his glazed eyes, flushed skin, and gaunt body, and that was the end of Remy's life on the streets.  
  
Jean Luc took him, fed him, and got him healthy again (which no easy task, given that he was diagnosis with severe pneumonia, gonorrhea, and the clap; and he had lice). He had to spend weeks in a hospital with doctors showing a not entirely benevolent interest in him for being a mutant; not to mention the string of social workers who obviously couldn't have cared less about an abused street freak. This experience, as well as numerous other stints in hospitals (as his years on the streets had left him with a rather weak immune system) and an actual month as an experiment years later (in a laboratory where he'd been deposited after being caught in a military complex; luckily, he eventually escaped), left him with a permanent abhorrence for hospitals and laboratories.  
  
Despite being a most difficult child, especially in the early days, Jean Luc loved him. When Remy had nightmares, he was there for him; when Remy was afraid, he was understanding; when Remy behaved inappropriately, often in a sexualized and/or defensive manner, he was tirelessly patient; when Remy's power's manifested, he helped and supported him. But Remy was a fast learner and he craved affection desperately. Jean Luc could honestly say that loving Remy had been the most rewarding experience of his life, and that was saying a considerable amount. Nor did he have to do it alone. Aunt Mattie was there - a woman of seemingly infinite sympathy and patience, whose capacity to see good in an individual extended to virtually everyone. And Henri, Jean Luc's son, loved him too, for he had been in his twenties when Remy was taken it, and more than mature enough to both without jealousy and with compassion.  
  
But the years passed and this too came to an end. Remy was trained as a thief (and given an excellent education beyond that), for which he showed an aptitude far exceeding even most of members of the Thieves' Guild. He was married to Belladonna, of the Assassins' Guild, in an effort to bring the two guilds together. They were not in love, but they didn't care. They got along well and would be content enough in knowing what peace and prosperity had been allowed through their alliance. Alas, this was not be. There were certain factions who did not want this joining, and within twenty four hours of marriage, Remy was attacked by his wife's brother, Julian. Remy killed him (apparently), but was to exiled from New Orleans, on threat of death.  
  
In the course of a day, ten years of healing was destroyed. It became irrelevant and he was again the same boy he'd been on the street not so long ago. He was stronger now, bigger, more dangerous, more capable, but still he had stopped living again and had return to the realm of surviving. For years of care and love had left him weak. He knew what loneliness was and though it had once been a medium in which he was at home, this was no longer the case, and he felt the need to escape it, as a drowning man needs to escape the water. Now the loneliness drove him into the arms of men and women who wanted nothing more from him than a couple of hours. It also wrecked havoc on one of his mutant abilities, which had not been active during his time on the streets. He was finding it difficult to reign in his charging power, which was increasing creating problems for him when on missions (given that almost every contract he took on involved delicate, undetected entrances and departures). It was in seeking to regain control of his charging ability, which was quickly becoming as dangerous to others as to himself, that what little he knew of other mutants led him to Sinister.  
  
Sinister was emotionless and Remy was completely unable to read him. Furthermore, Sinister (or rather, Nathaniel Essex, as he introduced himself) was the first mutant Remy had ever really had any contact with. He felt a misguided sense of family or, at least, camaraderie, and he made a conscious, somewhat unnatural decision to trust the man. Essex had one of his mutant cronies construct a mental blockade in his mind (the part that is not consciously controlled) that both prevented his charges from being too powerful and gave him a great deal more control over them. As payment, Remy agreed to lead the Marauders to the Morlocks, where the former were, supposedly, going to try to recruit from the latter. The real reason he blamed himself for the Massacre was because he should have known. Sinister, he had no ability to read; but the others, he did. He had purposely refrained from making empathic contact with them in general because he had almost immediately found their minds to be disturbing and distressing. And he paid for that weakness in full.  
  
He was slashed open and left for dead in those tunnels, but like the cockroach that he was, he didn't die. He lived (along with Marrow) to recover and embark in a self-destructive streak that again required a recovery, though this time aided by Rixt. And then he met little Storm.  
  
His memories of the X-men were happy ones, for even though he had been made quite miserable by the constant hostility and mistrust that was thrown in his face and that battered at his walls, he had always been happy to be there. He was, after all, well accustomed to misery. And he was not entirely without friends, though his own conscience, as well as the presence of two, sometimes three (if Betsy was around), telepaths in the Mansion, prevented him from ever really trying to confirm this by looking too deeply. In Storm he found a sister, almost a kindred spirit. In Logan he had found understanding, friendship, calm. And in Rogue he had found love. or so he thought.  
  
The events of the trial and his following abandonment in Antarctica told him differently. He wondered if he'd made the same mistake again, by shielding himself from the emotions of others; but as he was the only one hurt, he figured that this was not the case.  
  
Logan slowly opened his eyes and Remy's memories faded to the back of his mind. He had, indeed, walked a mile in Remy's shoes - more than a mile, in fact, a lifetime, and he was overcome with an uncharacteristic understanding, sympathy and. love. He supposed one could not truly understand another without loving them.  
  
He had no idea how much time had passed - it could've been minutes or hours. The monster was gone and an unconscious Remy had been placed on the bunk and hooked up to, well, something. Logan came as close to the energy field as he could and tried to get a better look at the pale form. He found it hard to believe that it was empty, though he knew that it probably was, and he mourned, because he knew that however much of Remy that had managed to be stored in his own mind, it wasn't all of him. He would never be the same again; if, indeed, he even lived through this ordeal. "Oh, Remy, baby," he whispered. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know, I didn't know."  
  
More time passed. Eventually, he began to feel Remy's quintessence (for lack of a better word) seep from him - hopefully, to return to his body. Logan waited to see if Remy would wake, but he didn't, and Logan was left to wait again, this time without Remy's comforting presence in his mind. 


	4. The Return

Apologies: Sorry for taking so long. Exams and all that.  
  
Disclaimer: I claim nothing.  
  
*x* = telepathic speech. I was using before but this time fanfiction.net is giving me font/text difficulties.  
  
Ch. 4 - The Return  
  
Mexico:  
  
Logan woke to (by?) the sounds of distant fighting - the occasional battle cry or scream of pain, the sounds of heavy objects (probably bodies) hitting floors or walls, and the sound of. energy blasts? Logan shot to his feet. "Cyke?!," he hollered.  
  
Cyclops was too far to hear, but someone else wasn't. *Wolverine?*  
  
*Jean!*  
  
*Are you hurt?*  
  
*No, I'm fine, but Gambit's in a real bad way. We need to get him out of this cell.*  
  
*Gambit?. Never mind, I'm sending Cyke to you.*  
  
After several tense minutes of pacing and waiting, Logan heard and then saw Scott running down the corridor towards him. He looked battle weary, but absolutely and tirelessly determined, and Logan thought he had ever looked so good. Scott quickly eyed then blasted the key pad outside of his cell, freeing Logan and prompting a snide comment about Scott choosing a great time to practice being fashionably late. But the latter didn't even have the time to respond, as Logan immediately stepped passed him and extended his claws. Standing in front of Remy's cell, he stabbed them into and ripped through the key pad, shorting out the energy field. He heard a gasp and as their fearless leader got his first look Remy's naked, battered body. It provoked a small, somewhat irrational surge of anger, and Logan was hit by a need to shelter and protect the vulnerable being.  
  
"Go," he said gruffly. "I'll take care of him. It sounds like they could use some extra manpower up there." There was a momentary hesitance to comply, but Scott knew that Logan was probably more right than he knew. Though he knew Sinister had already managed to escape, he and Jean had left the rest at the ground level, vastly outnumbered. These new mutant opponents were not as lethal as Sinister's usual cronies, but there were a lot of them and they were rather disturbing in their unthinking, zombie- like manner. Indeed, they were fighting indiscriminately, apparently only focusing their violence on the X-men because of their prominence in the melee.  
  
"Hurry," Scott demanded and then took off back down the corridor, leaving Logan to bring Remy. He picked up the discarded blanket, briefly revolted by its smell - of Remy's blood and sweat and urine, and that monster's semen. But there was nothing else to use, so he wrapped it around Remy's lifeless body, removed the IV, and picked him up, with one arm around his back and the other under his knees. "I've got you, Remy," he whispered. "Everything'll be okay now."  
  
He hurried down the corridor, following Scott's scent. The scene that greeted him up on the ground level was a veritable pandemonium, with the X- men desperately fighting off the mindless hordes, who were, in turn, also fighting amongst themselves. There was simply too many of them to be able to execute much of a strategy, and as soon as Logan was spotted, Cyclops called for a retreat. There was nothing more to be accomplished here, and Scott had a slightly nauseating feeling that, left to their own devices, these zombie mutants (as Scott had quickly taken to calling them) would probably finish each other off. He wondered what Sinister had done to them. What had happened to Remy?  
  
The casualties to the zombie mutants were high, but the X-men were not without their own injuries. As they fled the complex, running or hobbling or being carried towards the Blackbird, and being followed by a few determined zombie mutants, Cyke did a quick assessment of damage. Archangel, looking ragged and badly scratched and a little crazed, was carrying Iceman, who looked dead.  
  
Scott felt a stab of cold fear and he frantically hoped that he wasn't actually dead. Someone had really done a number on him - his body was covered in scrapes and scratches, and his face was a bloody mess. Beast was already trying to examine him, from which Cyke took encouragement, and he forced himself to quickly look over the others, dreading what he might see. Storm was limping and had her arms wrapped around her torso, but Scott was relieved that there didn't appear to be any permanent damage. Rogue was cradling her left wrist, and though sprayed liberally with blood, the combination of rage and triumph on her face told him that most of it was not hers. She made him almost feel like smiling.  
  
Wolverine looked alright (as to be expected), though from the length of his facial and head hair, one would have thought he'd been held captive for weeks, not for only five days. Gambit was covered in his blanket, but Cyke knew that it was hiding a bruised and battered body. Still, he was alive and, Cyke presumed, in a better state than Iceman. As for himself, he'd managed to escape relatively unscathed. He had been set fire to (so, embarrassingly, his clothes barely existed), but had managed to successfully 'drop and roll', so that all he sported were a few minor burns and a nasty gash on his bottom lip.  
  
Jean lowered the access ramp and everyone stampeded aboard as with an energy that can only come from finally being able to escape. The Blackbird took off almost immediately, with Cyke, Rogue, and Storm scrambling towards the cockpit. Warren laid Bobby down on one of the bunks in the back as Hank frantically began rooting through medical supplies. Logan blankly looked at the three, somewhat at a loss. But he was too determined to get angry. If Hank couldn't or wouldn't help, or simply wasn't, then he could do it himself. Hank was right, after all - Bobby looked more in need of immediate attention then Remy. Who knew what Remy needed anyway? Probably none better than him.  
  
So he lay Remy down on the other bunk. He discarded the disgusting blanket in favor of a clean sheet, though not without some indecision, aware as he was that Remy chilled easily. Though he had some idea what needed to be fixed, he grew frustrated with his lack of skills. There was a broken arm that needed to be set, and an IV drip needed to be set up to give Remy the food and, to a lesser extent, water that his body had been deprived of for the last eight days. But Logan did not know how to do these things, so satisfied himself with cleaning the gash through Remy's left eyebrow, then cleaning the bite wound on his back; then, with growing urgency (Remy, so immaculate, would hate to be caught in such a state), he scrubbed the rest of the boy down, eager to get the blood, sweat, semen, and general stench off him. He even forced himself to remain calm as he wiped flecks of dried blood from between his legs.  
  
After who knows how long, Logan stopped and looked at his handy work. The Cajun looked (and smelt) much better, much cleaner, though his body was too thin, his hair was still dirty, and much of his skin was marred with bruises. He felt a familiar ache of loneliness, but it had gained a sharper edge and was overshadowed by loss. It did not take Logan long to trace it back to Remy's flooding of his mind. At the time he hadn't realized it, because of the intensity and horror of the situation, as well as the intensity and horror of the memories, but now he did. Remy had completed him, had made him whole in a way that every man and woman wishes and craves to be, but never is. Their minds had mingled and fused and become one; solitude had been banished. but had returned with Remy's departure.  
  
Logan looked over a the other bunk. Warren was just sitting silently, his head in his hands, and Hank's desperate movements had calmed.  
  
"Beast," Logan growled. Hank turned around and, after a brief pause, nodded. "Bobby's almost stabilized. This will only take a moment."  
  
Then Hank turned to Remy and was somewhat amused as Logan gruffly rattled off what was needed: IV, stitches, bandage the cracked ribs, set the arm. Hank began doing his own inspection.  
  
"How long has he been unconscious? Did he receive a blow to the head?"  
  
"They tried to fuckin' wipe his mind," Logan snarled.  
  
Hank frowned unhappily. "Like those zombie-things we were fighting?"  
  
"I dunno. Maybe."  
  
"Well, one thing at a time. Maybe the Professor can help him." And Hank got down to work, though it didn't stop him from continuing to ask questions. "How'd they get him anyway?"  
  
Logan thought for an second, trying to remember what Remy had known about it. "I don't know. Sinister had placed a block in his mind years ago and it occurred to Remy in his cell that it might have allowed Sinister to track him. But all he actually remembers was a flash of light and the formation of a space tunnel, like a wormhole, that engulfed him and transported him to his cell. Maybe Scott should upgrade the security..."  
  
"It's not his fault," Hank responded, but Logan said nothing further, and he continued his work in silence. At some point Scott came to back to get a report of Bobby's and Remy's conditions. Hank explained that while Bobby's injury had been immediately life threatening, now that he'd been stabilized, it is likely that would ultimately be okay. Remy, on the other hand, was another matter. His injuries could be fixed, but the condition of his mind in another matter altogether, and Logan was not being particularly cooperative.  
  
"Logan?," Scott queried.  
  
"We should get the Professor to look at him when we get back to the Mansion," Logan said stubbornly. At some point after being rescued, he'd decided that certain things that had happened in captivity were meant to remain between him and Remy. If Remy wasn't conscious enough to hide his weakness, then Logan would simply have to hide them for him. But he did need help, and he had some degree of confidence in the Professor's trustworthiness.  
  
When Scott left, he turned to Hank, his voice was brimming with emotion. "I need you to swear, really swear, that as a doctor you will respect Remy's right to privacy. The team doesn't need to know about all of the injuries."  
  
Hank knew what injuries Logan was referring to and he was willing to agree. It was not his place to tell anyone about the evidence of rape - it was not knowledge that could be used to help Remy in any way (at least not in his present state), nor was the perpetrator readily punishable. This was a secret he was willing to keep for the Cajun; and he briefly, and uncomfortably, wondered if all of Remy's secrets were such that they should remain secrets. "I swear."  
  
Westchester:  
  
Bobby was already looking better by the time the Mansion was reached. Logan wanted to go with Hank down to the lab, but Scott had 'requested' to see him in the Professor's office. Of course, they wanted to know what happened, and Logan told them most of it, particularly parts relating security and Remy's mental state. He said very little about Rixt, nothing about the rape, and neglected to mention that he had been affected at all by Remy's mind transfer. He suspected that Xavier was aware of that he was not telling them everything, but neither man let on. Scott seemed primarily concerned with how to protect the Mansion against everything Remy knew.  
  
After the meeting, Logan and the Professor went down to the lab. "Any change?," Logan asked Hank, who was taking a break and snacking on a Twinky.  
  
With a mouth partially full of food, the doctor responded, "Yeah, actually. His brain patterns have changed, indicating that he is no longer comatose, though I have not been able to rouse him. Still, his brain waves indicate sleep - very deep sleep, but sleep nonetheless. It's a very good sign - of him waking up at least. Lets go see him."  
  
Logan and the Professor followed Dr. McCoy into the bay area where both Iceman and Gambit lay. After briefly consulting Hank about Bobby's condition, Xavier wheeled himself close to Remy, focusing intently on him. Shortly, he spoke up. "His mind is not coherent. My guess is that connections and pathways are being rebuilt. He'll probably wake when enough have been made to support consciousness. But there's no way to know, really."  
  
Logan didn't even bother to ask how long it would be - he knew they didn't know. But he would stay tonight, he decided, giving into an ache that would only be soothed at Remy's bedside. And he did just that, staying up almost the entire night, just looking at him, stroking his hand, his arm, his cheek. He swore to himself that whatever happened, no matter what, he would protect Remy, knowing, somehow, that he would need protection and strength when he woke. if he woke.  
  
Days past. Then a week. Then two. Bobby recovered; and so did Remy. but he didn't wake up. Logan visited Remy everyday, as well as visiting the Danger Room and engaging in viscous, exhausting battles against an enemy programmed to look suspiciously like Morgan. He beat the monster dozens of times for that one time that he hadn't been able to. He was constantly in an awful, unbearable mood that cowed most of the team. But they deserved it. and it helped, and the extent of Remy's suffering finally melting the callousness that gripped their hearts. There was sympathy and pity and even guilt (amongst most), and though Logan was still angry, he would have ripped their throats out if they had expressed condemnation.  
  
Scott undertook a major security overhaul, while Jean spent a lot of time in the lab with Hank. Both she and Charles Xavier had tried to reach out to his mind, and while both agreed that there was something there, something vaguely familiar and somewhat like quicksand, it was nothing that could be understood until it had fallen into place and set. Which there was indication of midway through the third week.  
  
On Wednesday night, Hank heard an alarm go off in the bay. He hurried to flip off the alarm, then rushed to the wall phone to call Jean in her room. After a brief discussion in which it was decided that fewer people was better, she out to Wolverine, and promptly left her and Scott's quarters to go down to the lab. Not surprisingly, Logan managed to get there first, and when she entered, he was seated, holding Remy's hand, with Dr. McCoy standing on the other side of the bed. She could feel Remy's mind - unnaturally disordered, but more sentient nonetheless.  
  
Eventually, his eyes fluttered under the dimmed lights, and everyone held their breathes. Then his eyes blinked open, then again, this time trying to focus. "Remy?," Jean asked. Remy faintly flinched at her voice, before trying again to focus. But both Hank and Logan had only a split second warning (the sudden tension of the body), before the young man was out of the bed, and surely would have been out of the room if he'd been able to see which side of the bay possessed a door. Unfortunately, as he hadn't been, he was now trapped, with the bed, not to mention three people, between him and the door. And he knew that they could all see his fear and panic.  
  
"Let me deal with this," Logan whispered.  
  
He cautiously took a step towards Remy, who was crouching in a flight or flight stance, eying him suspiciously. "Remy? Do you remember me? It's Logan. You're okay now, you're safe."  
  
Several tense seconds passed before Remy seemed to relax. then tremble until his body was shaking violently. Logan quickly came to him and took him into his arms. Remy burrowed silently into Logan's chest until his body heaving calmed, then disappeared. Logan placed his palms on Remy's cheeks and gently tilted his face until he could gaze into the coal and fire eyes. There were no tears in the eyes, but they pulled at his heart and he knew that he was right. Remy was not okay, and he would need protection and strength. Still, he asked. "Remy, are you alright?"  
  
An awkward, confused frown slowly graced Remy's face. He recognized what was said, who was speaking, but could recall no words at all. He felt strange, lost, muddled, unclear - about everything. He didn't know what he felt, what he thought, remembered, or understood. Indeed, he felt that he knew nothing beyond the question being asked. So he shook his head gracelessly, for whatever he was, he wasn't alright.  
  
The calming of his mind made him more aware of the minds of those around him. The woman and the creature were interested and concerned, though quite unnerving precisely for those two characteristics. He was entirely unaccustomed to such sentiments in a positive context, and was immediately wary. But Logan. the name was familiar, and the emotions he was emanating were warm and comforting and appealing. But already it was fading, as the bombardment of emotions on his mind provoking natural defences and rebuilding his wall; and it was both reassuring and isolating. So he pulled out of Logan's arms and continued to observe the three that were quite intently observing him.  
  
"Remy," Logan said hoarsely. "Say something. Please."  
  
Again, the words only made enough sense to be understood, but were strangely decontextualized and one-dimensional. Remy frowned somewhat more naturally this time, trying to get his mind around the request and the expected response. Eventually, he shook his head again, the movements made somewhat less awkward by having already executed them once.  
  
Logan looked rather stricken, though Remy could still feel the warmth and. protectiveness?. that radiated from him. The woman whispered, "May I try?," and Logan nodded, his eyes refusing to leave Remy's, though Remy's wondered between the three, purposely dodging the uncomfortable intensity of Logan's gaze. Jean stepped closer to Remy, so that she stood next to Logan, while Hank watched from closer to the door.  
  
Remy began to tremble again, but moved away when Logan steeped towards him with open arms. The voice in his mind was disturbing - not in a recognizable way, but in a foreboding sense that it would provoke an unintended and uncontrollable reaction.   
  
Fear rose in Remy; he could feel the chaos in his mind building, preparing to erupt. And then, just like that, he fell to his knees, his hands grapping his head, as he felt agony rip through him, and he recognized it instantly as his own.. But the pain was too all-consuming - surely there was nowhere to escape such pain - that he didn't notice that Jean too had fallen to her knees and that Hank had run to her (nor did he notice that, elsewhere in the mansion, the Professor was also in a fair amount of pain). He faintly felt Logan's hand on his shoulder, but it was quickly pulled away, seared by a blinding pain that would not be held back by boundaries of his skin. He bent over his knees, close to the floor, and though he didn't lose consciousness, he might as well have, as the entire extent of his awareness was taken up by the pain, and there was nothing else.  
  
After what felt like a short eternity, but what in reality was only about twenty minutes, the agony faded to the point that perception of something else was possible. He still lay on the floor, though Logan was sitting (also on the floor) close to him, protectively, but just watching him. He frowned at Logan, who seemed to recognize the return of a semblance of consciousness.  
  
"Are you alright, Rems?," he asked, his voice carrying a strong undercurrent of concern. Remy still felt frightened, lost, and unsure, but it was a state that felt somewhat more natural than before - less like a bad drug trip, more in control of whatever sense he did have. So he forced himself to nod, but before Logan could respond, Hank had squatted down next them. "Well, Remy, you gave everyone quite a scare there. But Jean and the Professor are alright, though that empathic pain wave was quite a wake-up call. And they both said that you're mind seems more ordered now. So, hopefully no more of those episodes, right?"  
  
Remy had only the faintest idea what the blue furry doctor was talking about - something to do with the earlier pain. So he shook his head. He didn't think there would be another episode, at least not immediately.  
  
Both Logan and Hank tried to help him when he struggled to stand, only realizing now that his muscles were still from weeks of laying in bed. But he shook them off and quickly took in the bay area. Jean was sitting on a bed, looking at him, and Scott was standing near her, looking at him; and the Professor was sitting in his wheelchair, also looking him. He felt distinctly uncomfortable, like a caged animal, and it was a somewhat familiar feeling. He had to get out of this lab now.  
  
So, almost proving that there is some inherent aspect of personality, he did a very Gambit thing: he simply strolled towards the door as if he had no reason to stay and as if there were not a four people in that room who probably thought he should stay in the medical bay.  
  
Hank was the first to respond, almost immediately asking, "Where are you going?"  
  
But Remy ignored him, almost to the door, but Logan's voice, softly calling his name, made him turn around, a questioning look on his own face. "Remy, where are you going?," Logan asked once eye contact had been established.  
  
Remy frowned, looking like he didn't want to answer, but looking even more frustrated because he couldn't. Finally he looked purposefully at Hank, raising his hand conspicuously, and made a clumsy, almost child-like gesture. Now it was Hank's (as well as everyone else's) turn to frown. Remy repeated the gesture and a light bulb went of in Hank's mind. "He's trying to sign!," he said excitedly. "I didn't know he knew I know how to sign! I didn't even know he knew how to sign!"  
  
"Well, what's he trying to say?," Logan interrupted gruffly.  
  
"Uh.." Hank focused on the awkward gesture that Remy repeated again. "Leave." The faintest trace of a smile appeared on Remy's face as he recognized the word he had been trying to find. Encouraged, he tried another half-remembered gesture, then another and another. "Here. Bad. Now. Leave."  
  
Jean and Hank were both desperately trying to think of a way to get Remy to stay without having to restrain him, or threaten him, or do something that would surely damage Remy in his unstable mindset. Scott, on the other hand, still fancied an easy way to solve the 'Gambit problem' and wouldn't have minded Remy's departure. The Professor had wisely decided that this was not something he was best equipped to handle. He had faith in Jean and Hank. and, strangely, Logan.  
  
"Can I come with you?," Logan asked abruptly.  
  
Remy looked back at him, confusion and surprise clearly written on his face. If it had been any of the others that had asked, fear and suspicion would have overcome him and he might have even bolted for the nearest exit. But Logan. his mind tried to hold the word, though some hidden black hole kept trying to suck it away. Logan, Logan, Logan. He didn't want to do this own his own. Do what? Anything. There was a fear of being alone, with only his unknown mind and memories for company. That was more frightening even then staying in the bay, the subject of curious (surely not benevolent?) stares. So he nodded, then continued out the door. With a nod of confirmation to the others, Logan followed. He would keep the Cajun out of trouble. 


	5. Recovery

Again: Sorry for taking so long. Exams (still) and various other commitments. Am still appreciating all feedback and X-men still don't belong to me. (And I swear we'll get to the slash one of these days.) And * * means telepathic speech.  
  
Also: Be wary for format errors. Single full stops (periods for Americans) in the middle of a sentence are Fanfiction.net's way of mutilating my three full stops in a row. ( . . . ) However, I do realize that there may be my own errors. It's just that I HATE to correct my own work so it often gets done poorly.  
  
Ch. 4 - Recovery  
  
Westchester:  
  
Jean, of course, had to say something, if only to Logan. *You aren't going to let him leave the Mansion are you?*  
  
Logan considered her question for a moment. *I'll try to get him to stay, but if he really wants to leave, and I don't blame him, I'm not gonna stop him.*  
  
Outside the med bay, Remy was peering up and down the hallway with an adorable look of confused frustration. Logan cleared his throat to catch his attention then pointed in the direction of the elevators. And off Remy walked in that direction, though with somewhat less confidence then his over-confident exit from the med bay had been; and Logan strolled after him, content, for the moment, to follow.  
  
They reached the elevator, then took it to the main floor, where Remy looked only briefly surprised by the radical change in décor from metallic and sterile to, well, homey. But he was quickly drawn to the stairs, Logan in tow, then up the stairs, completely ignoring a surprised Joseph and his uncomfortable greeting.  
  
Remy stopped after the second flight of stairs, and began stalking curiously down the hallway. He stopped at the end of the hallway, between two doors that seemed somehow so familiar and across from a window showing the dark of night. Finally he looked at Logan.  
  
"That's your room, Remy," he said gently, pointing. "And that one's mine."  
  
Remy approached his door, and reached out to touch it, but stilled his hand before it reached the door. After a moment, he pulled his hand back, turned around, and pointed to the other door.  
  
"Would you like to go into my room, Remy?," Logan asked, speaking as one would to a child. In truth, he wasn't even overly upset about Remy's condition. He'd been expecting so much worse, he hadn't even thought the young man would ever wake up. But he had, and so what if he was sporting a few glitches? He may never recover entirely, but surely education and training could ameliorate his condition. Logan knew Remy, he understood him from having experienced Remy's life through Remy's eyes, and there was no way Logan couldn't love him, to the point that it didn't matter to him how that love should manifest. It didn't really matter that Remy was no longer what he used to be, if he crazy or child-like; Logan would have liked to love him as a lover would, but if he just needed someone to protect him, care for him, and not take advantage of him - he could do that too. And more than that, he could do that and still be happy that he could be there for Remy.  
  
Remy nodded and Logan punched in the key code, allowing the door to be opened. "After you."  
  
Remy cautiously entered, but curiosity soon getting the best of him. Logan knew he'd been in his room before - he could remember Remy lounging against the door, waiting for Logan to find a cigar, or whatever else he couldn't find in his messy room - but one would never have guessed from the way Remy was methodically inspecting everything in the room. He poked at piles of clothes and old newspapers with his feet, but touched little else, and was particularly enraptured by the two Japanese swords on his wall. This development, of course, prompted an explanation from Logan, who was very much attached to the swords.  
  
"These two are my babies. They were given to me by a great samurai from Japan who had deal to teach to an arrogant man who thought that he hadn't much to learn. He was good man." Logan removed one from the wall, and after lovingly looking at it for a moment, he handed it to Remy. Remy held it by it's handle, studying it with definite interest, then began to position it in different ways. He was remembering something, though he couldn't tell what - an ability to use these sort of weapons perhaps. He was suddenly gripped by the desire to fight - not against Logan, but just in general, because he had the distinct impression that he was quite good at it. In fact, though they were out of context, he could remember dozens upon dozens of fights. He remembered injuring, and being injured, and he remembered. blowing up things.  
  
Distracted this more curious revelation, Remy quickly handed the sword back to Logan and began to inspect his palms and fingers. How had he been able to do that? But Logan smiled at his actions and answered the unasked question. "You can charge material. 'Cause you're a mutant, remember? You can touch things, raising their kinetic energy, then they explode. You remember?"  
  
Slowly, Remy nodded. He did remember. Indeed, just thinking about it, staring at his hands, made his fingers feel a somewhat prickly, as if they wanted to discharge energy. For perhaps the first time since he'd woken, Remy smiled. He remembered this, and he remembered how to do it; and he had no doubt in his mind how lethal this could be, if properly wielded.  
  
Logan wasn't quite sure what Remy was smiling about, but decided to view it as a good sign anyway. He was about to suggest going outside and seeing if Remy could charge anything, but the loud growling of the Cajun's stomach suggested something else, reminding Logan that he been being fed intravenously for almost three weeks and that it had done absolutely nothing to put more weight on the thin frame. "Whadya think? Time for a late night snack?"  
  
But Remy just looked at him like he didn't know what he was talking about; so he tried again. "Food?"  
  
This time Remy smiled and nodded, so Logan led him down the two flights of stairs to the ground floor, when he felt the briefest brush against his mind. Remy felt it too, he could tell, by the way Remy's body went tense and his expression cautious. But was only Jean, probably wanting to make sure they hadn't left the Mansion, so Logan continued on to the kitchen. But he was grateful for the late hour and the consequent absence of people.  
  
He then proceeded to watch Remy devour truly obscene amounts of cold leftovers. Again, it would have been funny, if it wasn't so sad, and Logan brooded deeply on this. How many times had the boy been starved? Boy? When had he started thinking of Remy as a boy? He was twenty two and had lived more than the average man in that short span. But Logan couldn't help it.  
  
After Remy had eaten to the point where he looked as though he would be ill (Logan hadn't the heart to suggest to firmly that Remy take it easy, as his stomach probably wasn't used to solid food), Logan suggest that sleep might be a good idea. He himself was tired and Remy looked about to drop to sleep (or get ill) right where he was. So Logan put forward the question that had been weighing in the back of his mind since having visited his room.  
  
"Rems,?" he started, getting the Cajun's waning attention. "Where do you want to sleep tonight?" But big, coal and fire eyes stared back at him expressionlessly.  
  
"You sleep in your room?," Logan tried again. But Remy quickly shook his head.  
  
"A guest room?" This option made Remy noticeably uneasy, but he didn't shake his head. "Or, there's my room if you want."  
  
Logan had tried, and succeeded, to put forward the last option casually, but he truly hoped Remy would take him up on his offer. He absolutely refused to push himself on the Cajun, even fore supposedly medical reasons, but he didn't want to think of the trouble he could get up to (or simply into) if left on his own. He very much wanted keep an eye on his young charge.  
  
Remy pondered the options, as well as his confused mind would let him, though it was hard, like being extremely stoned. He tried to go over what he knew (of relevance): 1. Trusting leads to pain. 2. The frightening chaos of his own mind, certainly to overwhelm him if left to his own devices, could be better managed in the presence of others. 3. Logan cared deeply for him, and wanted to protect him. 4. Logan made him feel safe and not so alone. He felt comfortable with Logan. He knew, he knew, he wanted to stay with Logan, but some part of him was obsessed with point 1: Trusting leads to pain, and it managed to counter every reason to go with Logan; for it was that powerful. It was only defeated by the cavalry, the reinforcements, the greater Truth that had to be retrieved from a forgotten cache of personal philosophy: Life is pain.  
  
So he decided to go with Logan. If life was pain, then there is little one can do to hurt one's self more. Logan had watched his inner struggle, and was relieved that Remy had accepted, though disheartened by the defeated nature of the acceptance. On the way back up the stairs, Logan stopped off in one of the guest rooms and picked up a single mattress, which he dropped onto the floor of his room, not too far from his own floor mattress. Remy barely seemed to notice, let alone care, that the mattresses were on the floor and collapsed to sleep on the smaller one even before Logan had the time to put on the sheets, though he did cover the thin, sleeping body with a heavy blanket before going to bed himself.  
  
Logan woke later in the night to whimpering coming from the other bed. He laid listening to it for an indeterminable amount of time until it began to escalate into cries, and the sound of mild thrashing could be heard. He crawled over to Remy's bed, leaned against the wall, and pulled the distressed form into his arms and lap. He himself was no stranger to nightmares, for indeed they had haunted him for almost as long as he could remember. Pain. Isolation. Confusion. Yes, he felt he could understand the young man who's hair he was now stroking. and he felt a sudden desire for a smoke. Remy's body had calmed and he thought he might just be content enough, if he could spend the rest of life smoking a cigar while holding and comforting the sleeping Cajun.  
  
Logan drifted off like that, but was woken again, this time by the somewhat rough handling of his body as Remy desperately untangled himself. "Remy?," Logan vaguely asked before waking up more fully.  
  
Remy had crawled to the corner of his bed (most likely because it was also the corner of the room), and he had begun to mumble and rock himself back and forth. He didn't respond when Logan inched forward, nor when he called his name, though he flinched and stopped mumbling (Logan's excellent hearing judged that he wasn't actually saying anything anyway) when Logan touched his shoulder. But Logan persisted and began rubbing Remy's back as he rocked, until the rocking slowed to a stop. Logan took another look at him and, seeing that he looked almost coherent, asked if he was alright.  
  
Remy looked him in the eyes for a long moment, then glanced down and shook his head. "Hey," Logan said comfortingly, reaching out and gently touching a smooth cheek. "It's okay. Things'll get better. When day comes, it won't be this bad."  
  
When his hand felt wetness, he moved his arms to draw Remy into an embrace. This time Remy helded, burying himself into his chest and shoulder as his body was racked with sobs.  
  
Remy eventually fell asleep again, allowing Logan to lay him down and return to his own bed with a head spinning with thoughts and memories. He stayed up for a while yet, thinking of ways to encourage Remy's return to. sanity? Normality? Adulthood? He didn't know where, but he was going to help him get there anyway.  
  
Remy seemed embarrassed the next day (when they finally got up around noon) and he still didn't speak, but he did, somehow, seem generally less edgy. Logan decided to take it as a good sign. He also decided that if Remy was going to stay in the Mansion, he would have to get reacquainted with it's residents; so he thought it a good idea to grace the dining room during the serving of the communal lunch.  
  
It actually went well. Rogue had packed some bags and disappeared earlier that morning upon learning of Remy's waking, but everyone else (except the Professor, who took his lunch separately) was there. Warren ignored him (his new grievance being that Remy had told no one of his empathic abilities) and Bobby had only given him a brief, small smile before continuing his conversation with Warren, but everyone else was friendlier, despite Remy's obviously out of character behavior. Jean offered both Remy and Logan to help with anything they might need (though Logan didn't think Remy had quite understood the offer), and Hank said that he would like Remy to come down for a check up within the next few days. But it was Storm who'd really found her heart in Remy's suffering: she positively doted on him. And Remy seemed to appreciate the attention, he even cracked a couple of weak smiles. It actually made Logan a little jealous, noting that Remy and Storm seemed to interact more smoothly than Remy and himself - despite the fact that he couldn't talk and couldn't always understand what was being said. Is that what he needs? Babying? Am I even capable of doing that? Probably not.  
  
They stayed at the table until Storm, Remy, and Logan were the only ones left, prompting Logan to bring up the subject of what to do next. Storm thought a tour of the premises would be a good idea, to which Remy agreed. By this point Logan had guilt tripped himself into allowing Remy to have the choice of. what? Guardian? Why could their be only one? It didn't matter that Logan didn't even know what Remy should be choosing, only that there was a choice - between him and Storm. So he entrusted Remy to Storm's safekeeping and went to vent on some not so unsuspecting badies in the Danger room.  
  
A couple hours later, Storm and Remy found him having a smoke on the porch. They approached from the garage with large smiles on their faces - Storm's somewhat more canny than Remy's open one. "Hey Logan," her beautiful voice purred. "I think Remy here's got something he wants you to see."  
  
Remy nodded vigorously, and though Logan gave Storm a suspicious glance, Logan agreed, almost immediately rewarded by Remy grabbing his hand (first time he initiated contact!) and dragging him towards the garage. Storm was left with a smile on her face and love in her heart, thinking of her two brothers that had suffered so much.  
  
They were not in the garage long before Logan got a pretty good idea what Remy was so excited about. Indeed, he was pointing at his motorcycle - a beauty, but also a real powerhouse. But Logan doubted Remy had the coordination, let alone the memory, to ride it safely. "Let me guess. You want to go for a ride."  
  
Remy was really smiling now, and for the first time, it was a smile that revealed an understanding deeper than what was immediately apparent. He smiled as though he knew taking the bike out was something that Logan would really want to do. And Logan was warmed, not just because he had repeated and lucklessly insinuated in the past to Remy that he would love to take his bike out (it was a phenomenal bike), but also because in that smile he recognized the man Remy had been just months earlier.  
  
"Hell. Why not?" Logan swung a leg over the bike and made himself comfortable. A mischievous smile presented itself. He could already feel how great the bike was and he hadn't even started it yet. "Well? What yah waitin' for Cajun?"  
  
Remy, still smiling, mounted the bike and wrapped his arms around Logan. Logan tried to ask about the key, but was quickly silenced by the fastest, most efficient, least destructive, and least conspicuous hotwiring he had ever seen (plus, one hand!). Logan was not a man easily impressed, but even he was impressed. Then, just like that, they were off.  
  
Remy's bike was racing bike and as soon as they had left the Mansion premises, Logan sped up, taking the curving (but relatively empty) roads at a breakneck speed. Logan even heard Remy laugh several times, and it pleased him to no end, though the laugh sounded strange. After about an hour of driving, Logan pulled off the road into a rest stop for lunch, after which they headed back for to the Mansion. In the garage, Logan decided it was time to broach the subject of Storm.  
  
"Rems?" Large eyes gazed at him. "You know, you don't have to stay in my room. Storm would take care of you if you want."  
  
Remy didn't look particularly happy about that comment; and Logan was beginning to find his constant silence unnerving. So he continued. "I just mean that I might not be the best company. You have options, and Storm might be a better option."  
  
Remy was having difficulty wrapping his mind around what Logan wanted. He thought he understood the words, but they were contradicted by what he could sense the man was feeling. Logan loved him, and he was jealous of Storm, Remy could tell. What did Logan want? Did he not want him around? At a loss with regards to how to respond, he settled for a simple response. He shook his head wildly then hugged the hairy man - not just any hug, but an affectionate one bordering on snuggling. Logan was surprised by the turn of events, but without complaint. What he had really needed was evidence that Remy wanted him around, and Remy's behavior seemed to qualify as such, at least in his mind.  
  
So Remy continued to sleep in Logan's room and reside mostly in Logan's company, though both Jean and Storm tried to work with the Cajun. There was a substantial amount of effort on the part of the X-men to forget what had happened - in order to avoid both guilt and anger and, most importantly, in order to focus on the present and the future. Those that couldn't forget (Rogue and, to a lesser extent, Warren) simply had to seethe in silence and ignore the living ghost of what Remy used to be.  
  
He also spent a substantial amount of time with the Professor (a distrustful relationship on Remy's part) sifting through his memories, rebuilding parts of his mind, and gaining control of his empathic powers. Progress must not be overly emphasized though, for Remy did not 'recover' completely, nor would he ever. He adamantly refused to re-enter his room or to contact any of his past acquaintances; and he made absolutely no advancement towards verbal speech. Instead, Remy and Logan had taken to spending long hours with McCoy, so that Remy (and McCoy) could perfect their sign language and so that Logan could learn (he was proving quite promising). It was also difficult to determine how much of past events Remy remembered, as he seemed most determined to be as non-communicative as possible. On the other hand, most learned processes (except speech and, to a lesser extent, reading and writing) were remembered relatively quickly. He was back on his motorcycle within a week of awaking, and though he continued to be plagued by nightmares, his degree of control had extended to the point that he no longer woke Logan in the middle of the night, though he was not wrong to suspect that Logan still knew. Logan also worked out with him, and knew that he was, rather tentatively, experimenting and refamiliarizing himself with his ability. Within three weeks of waking, Logan suggested to Cyke that Remy's capabilities be tested in the Danger Room, and Cyke agreed.  
  
Cyke monitored from the Observation Room overhanging the Danger Room, as Logan and Remy warmed up and then began sparring. Logan, however, was soon presented with a unique difficulty. Remy had nodded, assenting that he had understood the purpose of this exercise, and yet he did not spar - not properly anyway. He moved smoothly, quickly, efficiently, and in a perfectly defensive manner, refusing to attack and just deflecting Logan's own attacks. Remy was fast and agile - two points he had in his favor, compared to Logan's strength and injury endurance. And he used his speed and agility to dodge punches and grabs and to inflict time buying hits, but he refused to engaged, and Scott got frustrated after a while.  
  
Over the intercom, "Hey Logan! We gonna see some real fighting sometime today?"  
  
After a loud growl to the fearless leader, Logan turned to Remy. He didn't understand what was going on either, and Remy was just watching him, looking healthy and mischievous and sexy, sweating, with a strange but appealing expression on his face. "Remy," Logan signed, trying again. "Just practice. No one will get hurt. It's not hard."  
  
But Remy shook his head vigorously, for he didn't understand either. All he knew is that he did not want to attack Logan. It felt. unnatural. "No," long, graceful fingers responded. "I don't want to attack you. I like you."  
  
Logan sighed. From Remy's behavior he didn't think that Remy's argument was one he could be easily dissuaded from. It was a little frustrating, but nothing that would discourage Logan too much. There had been so much progress in the last two and a half weeks that he couldn't complain that there were still quirks to be overcome. At least now he got the impression that there was an intelligent and mature, if only partially coherent identity just on the other side of the wall of childlike signs (the extent of Logan's sign vocabulary) through which they were forced to communicate. "Fine. I am going to talk to One-Eye for a short time. Wait here please?"  
  
Remy nodded and Logan left to the Observation Room. Once there:  
  
"Cyke. I think the problem is that he doesn't want to fight me. How 'bout we run a simulation?"  
  
"Okay by me. I've got the perfect candidate for the job." As he ran through the set up sequence, he began to brag about the simulation. "It's a new one, but don't worry 'cause I got the bugs out. It's perfect to assess a fighter. It gets progressively harder as the fighter continues to defeat stronger, more skilled, and generally more opponents. Plus, Remy should do good because the opponents are relatively slow. Sound okay?"  
  
"Yeah, fine." Logan hit the com button. "Hey Remy! We're going to put you through a simulation, okay?" He saw Remy give him two thumbs up. Smiling, he continued. "It will get progressively harder, humanoid opponents, no special abilities allowed, and we will monitor to make sure you don't get hurt, okay?"  
  
Scott indicated he was ready, and the simulation materialized. The lights in the Danger Room dropped (Scott adjusted for Remy's light sensitive eyes, figuring the Cajun would need as much help as possible) and two featureless and blue unarmed humanoids appeared beside the wall. And almost immediately Logan could see a difference in Remy - his muscles were tenser, his knees more bent, his arms more readied, considering the (in Logan's opinion) rather creepy simulated fighters a real threat.  
  
But the change was more astounding than first thought, especially with Scott's knowledge that even at the lower levels the opponents were physically stronger than the Cajun. The first two simulated fighters were both 'killed' (skulls smashed together) with such efficiency that it seemed more an execution than a fight. Remy's moves were controlled and calculated and his mastery of fighting strategy unquestionable. The next two opponents were also deftly defeated with two swift neck breaks. Again, he returned to his defensive stance.  
  
Right after the third couple appeared, all hell broke loose. Scott, seeing that the level at which Remy was fighting was far below his apparent capabilities, raised the program to a level near that of which most of the X-men would be required to train (if they had ever used this particular simulation before). He was the leader of the team and it didn't even occur to him to ask Logan; furthermore, he thought that too much over protectiveness was probably not the best answer to Remy's problems. Scott saw Remy as a survivor - he needed to be pressed to fulfil his potential, not coddled to minimize his damage.  
  
The third pair of simulated opponents (obviously larger than the previous ones) came barrelling at Remy almost as soon as they materialized. Remy was clearly surprised, and his actions lost their controlled quality as reflex and desperation kicked in. He managed the dart out of the way of one of the fighters, using the simulation's own velocity to throw him to the ground hard. Unfortunately, this gave the second opponent time to tackle him, and though Remy managed to twist away, he was off balance and took a powerful in the chest.  
  
Up in the Observation Room, Logan was threatening to go ballistic. When he'd realized what Scott had done, he had moved to action only to find Scott's visor trained on him, and Scott's voice warning him not to interfere (Remy was fighting remarkably well anyway) and that he was making sure nothing went wrong. So Logan had allowed it, but he was now watching the escalating fight with his own escalating rage, beginning to convince himself that he would be forced to kill Cyke when Remy was injured as a result of this stupid fucking simulation.  
  
But Remy recovered relatively quickly, whipping around and kicking out so that he was behind his opponent and able to ram his boot into its back. The kick had an impressive (for Remy's physiology) amount of force behind it and the opponent crumbled, registering a couple of broken vertebrae. But its defeat did not pause Remy for a moment, who was instantly in position in front of the second opponent, as it was getting to its feet. It tried to punch him, but Remy darted aside and grabbed the simulated head (which had neared as the simulation executed the punch). He then slammed the face area down on his rising knee, and, feeling a satisfying crumbling of flesh-like matter giving way, he let that body drop too.  
  
The next round of opponents appeared seconds later, but Remy was already prepared, though there was some surprise at encountering three figures this time. He was getting accustomed to this. game. Except that he had had difficulty understanding that it was just a game, just practice, just a test when he'd been sparring with Logan, and this was becoming even more so. His mind was narrowing, in a channelled version of a berserker desperation; his memory of time and place faded and his concentration on surviving became everything.  
  
Within five minutes the three simulations had also been debilitated, with little more than a few bruises worth of damage to Remy. The first's ribs had been broken, severely puncturing the lung, and the other two had had their skulls violently crashed into each other's. But no matter. Almost instantly, three more appeared, this time covered in what appeared to be tiny tiny spikes, which Remy recognized would make any skin contact quite painful. Then the three advanced towards him, this time he backed away, slightly at a loss and trying to buy time. He was pretty sure he couldn't win this fight with only his legs and feet (as he figured his boots and jeans were the only materials he was wearing strong enough to protect form the spikes) - maybe if there was only two of them, but not three.  
  
Remy glanced around, out of desperation, the way one does when realizes that the immediate here and now does not hold the required means to accomplish an absolutely vital task. But he was lucky, and caught sight of the Observation Room out of the corner of his eye. It brought only one thought into his battle-centric mind: Logan. And it was enough, for that word/name worked as a key and suddenly his mind was flooded by powerful, overlapping memories with a common theme - fighting. It was intermingled with fear and desperation and anger, but they were in their strong forms that can drive individuals to feats beyond endurance, completely blotting out the crippling weak forms. The memories were accompanied by an energy rush and Remy suddenly felt very confident, as if he were in his element, as if fighting came naturally.  
  
He waited until his three opponents had come stalked almost within arms reach, then both hands shot away from his body towards the figures. His arms snapped straight for the briefest of moments, his hands mere centimetres from the spike skin before being almost instantly retracted. The entire sequence of events (which earned him a spiked and therefore bloody punch in the face) had taken less than a second, and it only took an additional second for Remy to retreat back before two almost identical (and rather peculiar) explosions manifested at points indistinguishably near to the chests of two of the simulations. They were peculiar in that the explosions were spherical except for the section of the explosion that would have extended to include Remy. So Remy didn't even feel enough of the shock wave to be thrown off balance (though the punch was a bitch), but the same could not be said about the third opponent, who was down for less than four seconds before Remy planted a couple of debilitating kicks in his faces.  
  
Up in the Observation Room, things had grown completely silent. When the spiked simulations had appeared, Cyke again had his hand at his visor, training it on Logan, as Logan had threatened to go downstairs and end the program by ripping his claws through the door of the Danger Room. But the cursing and anger had been quickly silenced by Remy's performance, and now they just stared in bewilderment. They had never seen Remy fight so well before, and he had always been a good fighter; not to mention the fact that he was using his charging abilities in ways and with a power that neither had ever seen before either. His speed and accuracy was. amazing. Logan didn't say anything as Scott raised the level of the program again, though he didn't know that Scott had never intended the level to be practiced at.  
  
The next round came, spike again, even bigger, and there was six of them this time. But Remy didn't even hesitate, attacking as they materialized. Six quick jabs later (as well as a few defensive kicks and what would surely turn into a large bruise on his hip), this round had also been demolished, sending the program into its final cycle - though Scott had never considered the final cycle a level. It was a sort of doomsday scenario.  
  
Four, eight, twelve. Remy quickly stopped counting how many were materializing around him in favor of dealing with the ones who were currently closing the circle in on him. He knew a hopeless situation when he saw one, he knew there were be no fighting out of this one. He'd been feeling strangely disembodied for most of the fight, so he was not surprised by his lack of fear. In fact, he felt comfortable, and there was something he wanted to do before he died.  
  
The idea had come so naturally that it didn't even occur to him, though he had never tried to do it before. He simply dropped to the ground and planted his hands on either side of him. Several long seconds passed (during which Scott made a move to freeze the program, but was too slow to do so before witnessing the result of Remy's actions), allowing the simulations to approach to the point of being under a meter away. Then the floor erupted in violent explosion. . 


	6. Independence

Okay guys, clue me in, I'm a bit new at this. Is the standard etiquette that I reply to reviews? I haven't been, that doesn't mean I don't appreciate them - especially the one with specific grievances or compliments. Constructive criticism is good. I am trying to get better here, you know. Anyway, I still don't own Marvel Comics and I'm still sorry for failing to proof read better - unfortunately, just not sorry enough to do a better job. But it's all in an effort to hurry the posting of chapters.  
  
By the way, if all goes as planned, this chapter should be the penultimate. Next chapter will hopefully be my grand finale.  
  
Ch. 6 - Independence  
  
Westchester:  
  
Logan was out of the Observation Room and on the emergency staircase down to the Danger Room before the explosion had even completed tearing the room apart. In a matter of moments, he was in front of sliding metal doors and, with a punch to the key pad, the doors opened. A somewhat smoky wall of heat instantly hit his body.  
  
"Remy?," he called, stepping into the room and immediately feeling a rush of relief at being able to make out Remy - still crouched on the ground, his eyes closed and unmoving, looking exactly has he had a moment before the explosion. The floor, however, was another matter. Except for a small doughnut hole upon which Remy crouched, a circular crater about eight meters in diameter and two meters deep took up most of the room. The crater, in turn, was littered with chunks of the flooring. A small corner of Logan's mind that wasn't preoccupied with Remy's well being commented about how pissed Scott would be when the smoke cleared enough to give him a full view of the damage.  
  
Logan was about to scramble into the crater and make his way to the island, but he stopped as saw a trembling Remy slowly, stiffly get rise to a standing position. His face was down though, and he didn't look at Logan. Indeed, he dropped into the crater and scrambled up the other side without looking at him either.  
  
Remy'd just re-established himself on the floor level, still shaking slightly and eyes still downcast, and Logan was about to say something, when the doors slid open again and Scott charged in, looking in quite a state. "God, Remy, I'm so sorry, I didn't expect you to get that far, I was stupid . . . Fucking hell! The room didn't look half this bad from upstairs!"  
  
Remy was exhausted. He felt too tired to think or feel or remember, though he was doing all of those things anyway - but just barely. He definitely felt too tired to interact, but he forced himself to do it anyway. He was even too tired to stop his body from shaking as he came down off the adrenaline. He looked up and silently thanked whatever that he already had Logan's attention (Logan had resolutely decided to ignore Scott's entire outburst in favor of not succumbing to rage and being forced to kill him).  
  
"Translate please," Remy signed, though his hands shook.  
  
Logan nodded, and, without taking his eyes off the Cajun, growled at Scott to shut up. Remy's signals came short and forceful. "Remy says he's sorry, he forgot about not using abilities."  
  
Remy was out the door before he had even finished speaking. Logan paused briefly. "I think he forgot it was a simulation." Then his voice changed to a growl. "The only reason I'm not dismembering you right now is because I think Remy has, by accident, already delivered your deserved punishment. If you ever, ever . . . pull something like that again, I will fucking dismember you. Now, enjoy the room."  
  
With that he stalked out (leaving Scott in a state of shock over the room), bumping into Jean and Bobby on the way (who were coming to investigate the rather unmistakable sound of explosion) and followed Remy's sent upstairs, where he found Remy trembling faintly against the window sill of his room and a cigarette in his hand. Logan picked his way through their cumulative mess to him and leaned on the wall to the side of the window.  
  
"You okay?" Remy nodded, but continued to stare out the window over the dusk lawn.  
  
There was a comfortable silence. They had spent so much time together at this point (and what with Remy not being able to speak and all) that both were able to feel as comfortable with silence in each other's presence as they had always been with the silence of solitude. Eventually Logan spoke again. "That was quite a stunt in the Danger Room. You weren't able to do that before, were you?"  
  
This time Remy turned to face him. Then he shook his head. "Not really," he signed. "Abilities went crazy after I left home, so got them blocked."  
  
Damn. I should of remembered that. Logan was slightly nervous now. This was the closest the two of them had ever come to talking about Sinister . . . and what had happened only three weeks ago. Did he want to take this opportunity to say something? Did he really want to rock the boat?  
  
"Are . . .," he started, but was forced to clear his throat embarrassingly. "Are you and the Professor dealing with it? What happened . . ."  
  
Was he being too vague? Remy's face was absolutely blank, suspiciously so, and Logan suddenly wondered if he remembered the rape. During the second week in particular, Remy's memory had returned to the point where he claimed to remember almost everything, though he professed a sort of detachment from it. And Logan knew he remembered his nightmares - they'd spoken of them before, though Remy would not give detail as to their content.  
  
"If you mean the cold place, then yes," Remy signed, sporting an unfeeling expression.  
  
"Antarctica - no, that's not what I was talking about. After." Logan knew that the Professor had talked to some of the members about their highly questionable down after the Trial.  
  
Remy had started signing even before Logan finished talking now, and his face was now beginning to show traces of strain. "Professor is not my head doctor. Don't talk about memories with him. Not his business. He knows there is nothing he can do for that. He is only training me to think and use abilities again. Memories are not the problem. Don't need to talk."  
  
The way Remy's eyes were fixed intensely on Logan, he got the impression the Cajun was almost daring him to bring the subject up. He also got the impression from the sudden extreme tension in Remy's body that the consequences of accepting such a dare probably wouldn't be pretty. He really didn't feel like upsetting Remy, not after the day he'd just had, so he settled for, "You sure Rems?"  
  
Remy's relaxed at that, and even offered a weak smile with his nod. His eyes finally stopped boring into Logan's as he let them shift outside. And he felt even more tired than he had a moment ago, if that was even possible. "You know what the worst thing about not being able to speak . . . Not being able to yell when I'm mad."  
  
Logan laughed at that, took a step towards Remy, and pulled him into a hug. God, he loved Remy so much it hurt. He wished it wasn't so difficult. When he pulled away, Remy was still smiling, but his sleepy eyes were questioning. "What you do that for?," he signed (having to hold his hands up awkwardly to do so due Logan's proximity).  
  
Logan smiled and shrugged. Then Remy leaned down and kissed him.  
  
For half a moment Logan almost responded, as he wanted to so dearly, as he had imagined all those times in the shower. But a rush of guilt forced him to jerk away. So much had happened - not only today, but in the last two months - and Remy was obviously on the verge of falling asleep; that Logan felt certain, suddenly, that it was not really Remy who had kissed him. Remy was gone, he'd died in that cell. This shell and whatever part of Remy was left in it simply hadn't the capacity to make decisions like, well, kissing.  
  
Logan knew he didn't really believe most of what he'd been thinking. Remy wasn't dead, he was there in front of him looking confused and backing away, but of one thing Logan was certain: he wouldn't take advantage of the young, damaged man. He was convinced that Remy hadn't the capacity to make the decision simply by the fact that he had. The 'old' Remy had never shown any romantic or sexual interest in him, so this was decidedly out of character (or so he decided). Remy had kissed him because. out of obligation, Logan's mind supplied. Or because he's been traumatized. Given what Logan knew about Remy's history (which was everything he could remember), neither possibility seemed at all unlikely.  
  
Remy confused expression turned to one of hurt as he lowered his empathic walls (something he had returned to doing very rarely) to gain a glimpse of understanding. Yes, the love was still there, but there was a strong feeling of guilt fused with it that had not been there before - at least not so noticeably. He almost gagged at the intensity of the emotion. No wonder Logan pulled away. For not the first time, Remy found frustration in the fact that an empathy and a telepath could sometimes take a reading of the same individual at the same time and still come away with completely different impression. Thoughts and emotions are both more and less intertwined than people usually think - why did Logan feel guilt? Remy could only think it was because he thought being in love with him was wrong. But again, why? Because he was a man? Because of the Massacre? Because he'd been a whore? Because he'd seen him being raped?  
  
Now Remy felt really ill and he decided that he didn't even want to know. God, he was tired. All he wanted to do was to go to sleep forever and never have to walk to this awful life. Even when it was getting better it sucked. He tried not care as he turned and made his way through the cramped room (what with two people living in it) to the door. Logan grabbed his elbow, but he shrugged it off.  
  
"Remy . . ." Remy only turned around because he had never heard Logan beg before. "I'm sorry."  
  
After a slight pause, Remy nodded, then signed, "I will sleep in my room tonight."  
  
"Remy!" But Remy stepped out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. It had flashed across his mind to give Logan the finger, but he didn't want to risk prolonging interaction by provoking him. He walked across the hallway to his room, which he had yet to enter since his return. It had frightened him a little in the beginning, just knowing there was a room full of what he used to be. He was afraid he'd enter and feel out of place and that it would be the most telling proof of the fact that he'd lost some part of himself. But the fear had faded (aided today by extreme fatigue), and he found that he didn't even really care if the room felt foreign. It was just a room and he had generally been feeling stable and sturdy and (god forbid) "normal" enough the last several day that he figured whatever he'd lost couldn't have been too crucial. Any apprehension he felt was further killed by the sound of Logan opening the his door behind him.  
  
So he quickly punched in his key code (Logan had requested the lock fixed after also requesting that Jubilee blast it several weeks ago), entered his room, and locked the door securely behind him.  
  
He looked around and eventually smiled sadly. The room possessed a faintly comforting feeling of familiarity and belonging, but it's emptiness and order contrasted sharply with Logan's lively mess, and his own loneliness was underscored. He fell back on his bed, trying to milk his gratification at finally being back on a mattress in a bed instead of the floor.  
  
Trying to stay away from painful thoughts of rejection, he wondered when Logan had become so important to him. He'd been a friend, before, and maybe there had even been an edge there - an edge that didn't exist in, say, his friendship with Storm. And he'd had Rogue back then (well, on and off), and she was had been his anchor; and then he'd been set adrift. It should have been alright, he did consider himself a drifter. But it wasn't an identity that came entirely naturally to him, rather it was a necessary and generally successful defence mechanism that had to be maintained. He had been so lost when he'd woken that night almost three weeks ago. He hadn't recognized anyone or himself or what was going on, and all he knew was that something horrible had happened. He'd been so frightened and alone and confused that he thought he might drown in the chaos of his mind and never return to sanity. Only Professor Xavier had realized how close he had come to not being able to find the path to recovery. It had been Logan that had allowed him to overcome the overwhelming panic and insanity. Logan loved him and wanted him to be safe and to recover, and Remy had been in such a state that his only choice was to accept his love and help or go mad. Logan was his lifeline and Remy had rebuilt his mind (with help from Xavier) around him. And now that lifeline had been pulled away.  
  
Pain pierced through his soul, making his chest feel tight and his breath come with difficulty. But it was what he needed to feel, he decided. Pain makes you tough. Love makes you weak. If only these lessons didn't have to be learned again. He was almost grateful for the pain, for the opportunity to be made stronger. Then finally sleep came to claim him.  
  
Remy dealt with his nightmare alone that night, and it was horrible, but he survived and even managed to wake before noon (feeling quite numb after yesterday's roller coaster) to prepare the team's lunch. A few days earlier he had offered to start taking cooking shifts again and this was his first - an easy day to begin too, as Storm, Rogue, and Warren (the three fliers) had left that morning on a scouting mission. So he picked through the clothes Logan had left in his closet after bringing most of them over to his own room, and dressed. He inspected himself in the mirror, an experience that found both disturbing and entertaining since the mind wipe - a result of the fact that he no longer identified with his body.  
  
In the kitchen he was mildly irritated to find Jean just beginning to prepare some coffee. He smiled in response to her cheerful greeting and tried to participate (mostly through nods and shakes of the head) in the conversation that provided. As he did so, he boiled rice and cut up tomatoes, pepperoni, carrots, lettuce, onions, and few other miscellaneous veggies. Where's the paprika? She spent ages joking about his demolition of the Danger Room the day before and how Scott was blaming himself. Finally she asked what he was making. When he couldn't respond (how does one communicate the word 'gumbo' without the aid of words or signs? couldn't she guess anyway? he used to make it frequently . . .), she forwarded an offer on an issue that had been on her mind.  
  
"We could, you know, try to have a telepathic conversation."  
  
Remy looked at her warily, an eyebrow elegantly arched. They hadn't tried since that disastrous attempt when he first woke - which he did remember. Even the Professor tiptoed around his mind when trying to help him normalize during their sessions, but the Professor's telepathy was quite different in nature to Jean's. Where Jean communicated telepathically, the Professor's telepathy gave him a quick (or prolonged, if he wished) taste of actually being that person. Because Remy generally (of late) understood his own thoughts, the Professor too could understand. But Jean was another matter.  
  
His gut reaction was to say no fucking way, but a more reasonable, yet slightly self-destructive part of himself wondered what permanent damage it could do. Pain meant little to him anymore and he trusted Jean not to root around (indeed, her telepathic capacity to root was limited anyway). But was it safe for Jean? He reached over to her and pointed to her head, then he withdrew the hand and made a strangled noise that successfully sounded like a mock moan of pain. Then he smiled apologetically for what an idiot he came across as.  
  
"I understand. But I think it'll be okay. I mean, don't you think before was just a one time thing?" Remy paused, then nodded. The Professor had also thought so, but had said that his mind was loaded with so many landmines that he could make no guarantees. Unbeknownst to him, the Professor had already agreed that she could try if Remy agreed.  
  
"So, what do you say? I promise not to pry. It would mean one more person you could talk to." It was the final comment that swayed him, as Jean knew it would. Remy was a social creature at heart and not being able to communicate had proved challenging to him - though it had provided him with a perfect way to avoid uncomfortable conversations (or even silences) with certain members of the team. So Remy gave her a wry smile and nodded, before turning back to the carrots he was chopping.  
  
"Excellent!" Physically, the only sign she gave that she was about to do something was place her cup on the counter (she didn't want to drop scalding coffee on herself if something did go wrong). She gently reached out her mind to his, and when he felt her caress his walls, he cautiously lowered them just enough to receive or broadcast thoughts. Chop, chop, chop.  
  
*Remy?* He looked up from the onions he was now dicing and smiled at her in acknowledgement, trying to convey his thoughts.  
  
Jean frown slightly. His mind was mess. Instead of using words it was using images as well as what he could only assume was some made up form of language (if one could call it that) that Remy's mind had concocted to allow him to think. Remy, I'm having problems understanding. *You're not thinking in a way I can recognize. Could you try to maybe think the way you sign?*  
  
Hmmm. this would be a bit challenging. He forced his thoughts to contract, trying to allow them to find structure and coherence (he had completely stopped his chopping now). It was frustrating because they would coalesce to the point of almost being 'normal' thought patterns then suddenly fan out again. The same thing happened four times before the frustration got the better of him and he let out an irritated sigh. *Merde.*  
  
*Remy? Remy! I heard that you bastard!* Jean laughed out loud and scampered over to the surprised Cajun and gave him a generous hug. *Of course shit would be the first thought out of your mind. Only you!*  
  
"Now . . . can you say it?," Jean asked mischievously, as though daring him to speak.  
  
He tried, he really did, but the word slipped away from him and he was unable. He had already tried, successfully, with both Hank and Logan, to imitate words that they spoke, but it didn't matter, because as soon as it was no longer an imitation, as soon as he had to recall the word himself and actually say something, then the word was gone and only emptiness was left on the tip of his tongue. Finally he gave up and shook his head with resignation. Jean, however, was not discouraged and claimed that it was a start.  
  
Lunch was fantastic. He could tell because everyone who was there ate it, despite the fact that it was hot enough to make you cry - Jean, in fact, did unwilling cry for most of the meal. Scott managed to cope by drinking a total of six glasses of milk in an effort to not to neutralize the burning in his mouth. Bobby coped surprisingly well by simply complaining and hyperventilating with every mouthful. Even Hank looked slightly off color as he greedily devoured the thick, spicy gumbo. Only Storm and Remy were able to consume the meal unphased. Still, no one forwent eating it favor of leftovers or a sandwich.  
  
Logan was supposed to be on cleanup duty, but as he hadn't shown for lunch and Remy felt a bizarre sense of responsibility, Remy ended up picking up and washing dishes. He didn't really mind though. It felt like ages since he'd done useful. Standing there, washing up, he came a decision. He wasn't going to lose one of the only friends he had just because of a stupid kiss. In fact, he managed to work up quite a bit of anger to direct at himself. Whatever his empathy had told him, he should have known better. His own relationship with sex was ambiguous at best - why had he been so eager to introduce into his and Logan's relationship? He must have been giddy with fatigue. Yes, he'd wanted to kiss the Canadian, but he knew better.  
  
So, that evening he came to Logan with a peace offering. He didn't care if it was embarrassing - he considered himself shameless anyway, and he'd rather lose a friend knowing he'd done all he could not too than to have any excuse whatsoever to blame himself. He had more than enough guilt to deal with it as it was, even if he was somewhat detached from it. The detachment almost made it worse, for he felt exceedingly guilty for not being in pieces over what had happened in the Morlock tunnels. Bizarrely enough, it felt more like he was responsible for the one who had led the Marauders to the Morlocks than that he actually was that individual.  
  
Knock, knock, knock. After a moment, Logan opened the door. He'd avoided Remy all day because he was absolute crap with words and hadn't a clue how to deal with the situation without making it worse. He was lucky that Remy's social skills were one of his many fortes. He'd spent too many years appeasing people not to know how to diffuse almost any situation - though there were, of course, a few exceptions.  
  
"Want to share my first drink?," Remy signed awkwardly with one hand, a bottle of whisky and a six pack in the other. He'd avoided drinking since waking three weeks ago. His mind was more than fuzzy enough on its own, thank you. But after a long day of coping by himself (quite a challenge given that he'd been spending an average of twenty hours a day with Logan since waking), there was nothing more he wanted to do than to forget his troubles with some fine whisky and Logan's comforting company.  
  
Logan was surprised to see Remy there in front of his doorway; he was also somewhat concerned about Remy decision to drink, but his relief that an attempt at reconciliation was being made far outweighed any other feelings. Remy's grin got impossibly, impishly wide at feeling the other man's relief wash over him. Logan still wanted to be friends! So he shoved the six pack into Logan's and motioned with a jerk of his head, indicating a desire to head to the staircase. Logan guessed Remy wanted to go to the back porch - their old drinking haunt from . . . months and months ago.  
  
Sitting there on the porch, conversation attempts were somewhat strained, though the silences were comfortable enough. The topic of their kiss the previous night was avoided - indeed, Logan doubted they had had a such an impersonal conversation in ages; and he was sorry to recognize some of the defensive distancing tactics he knew Remy tended to employ in his interactions with the rest of the team. They stuck primarily to drinking and hunting/thieving stories, though they'd all been told before. God, what men they were. Logan occasionally pointed out to constellations and Remy tried to tell a few jokes that lost almost all their humor in their conversion into sign language, but the drunker they got the more difficult signing (and understanding signs) became. Remy in particular was getting absolutely sloshed. By the time Logan went inside to retrieve a second six pack, Remy had already drunken about half the bottle (and it was really expensive stuff too) and second half was not too far on its heals.  
  
Now Logan had such high tolerance to alcohol that it was practically impossible for him to get beyond being tipsy (and even that was quite a drinking challenge) - his healing factor was able to successfully recognize the booze for what it is, poison. Given that he did not have a healing factor, Remy also had a phenomenally high tolerance (or, as he used to prefer to say, he knew how to drink), but on this night he far outdid himself and Logan began get worried that the kid would poison himself. But there weren't any obvious ill effects, though by the time the bottle was empty, the Cajun had become deathly still (except for periodic drags on a cigarette), hunched in his chair, and strange but intense frown on his face. Logan tried to get his attention, to make his snap out of it, but each attempt was met with only brief acknowledgement before returning to his stupor. Finally, after having his offer to help Remy up to his room was refused, Logan went to bed, feeling noticeably unsatisfied with the evening, feeling that, if anything, the distance between them was greater than it had been before the drinking.  
  
The problem had been, of course, that as soon as Remy was drunk enough, he became petulant (though not obviously) and morose, and lost all will power to smooth over the hitch in their relationship. He'd much rather bask in the numbness of a drunken stupor than bother to steer the relationship in a direction he didn't even want it to go. He felt so tired of what always seemed to be the same old shit. In some ways, though, it was a comforting feeling giving evidence of continuity between his life before and after the mind wipe. At least some things never change.  
  
Two more weeks passed, making it eight weeks since having his mind wiped and five since waking. Remy and Logan's relationship remained awkward and strained, both entirely unsatisfied with not being more than friends - with not being as close as they had been just weeks before. Logan was growing increasingly frustrated, but Remy was growing increasingly depressed (though, as always, he hid in superbly). Logan, however, was not the only reason, and perhaps not even the main reason. Though he spent long hours in the Danger Room filled with a growing jealousy of those on missions (those with something purposeful to do), his participation in a mission was out of the question. After all, he could barely communicate - and there doubts about his stability anyway. Jean had taken over for Hank and, together with the professor, was helping Remy think and speak in words. But progress was agonizingly slow and the sheer boredom and meaninglessness was increasingly grating on him. He had to fucking do something besides spending endless hours in his room. All the solitude wasn't helping, but communication was often so labored that often he couldn't even be bothered to interact - and he could only imagine that others felt the same way.  
  
Furthermore, a certain day was looming nearer and nearer and with its proximity, his nightmares became more intense (though it hardly seemed possible). He didn't tell anyone, but he wasn't sure if he would be able to cope with being here on that day. On the other hand, it would almost be worse if he did. Inevitably, he began to think of leaving again. He was irritated at himself for so frequently wanting to run away from his problems, but then again, there seemed little reason to stay. He was only a burden. Maybe he could return later, when he was no longer handicapped - if such a day was even on the horizon.  
  
So he packed a small bag of clothes and his most precious belongings - pictures, mostly, but also some highly specialized thieving equipment. It was, however, several days before he could leave, as it took him an excruciatingly long time (and no small amount of effort) to compose a good- bye note. He knew Logan loved him, and he wouldn't hurt the man by simply disappearing. He did, however, suspect that Logan might want him to leave simply so that his problematic feelings could be allowed to dissipate (but his only proof was the awkwardness of their increasingly infrequent interaction).  
  
The morning after Remy left the Mansion on his beloved bike, Logan woke to find a simple, heartbreaking note. The handwriting was almost perfect, as Remy had copied and copied it until his hands grew accustomed to the movement of writing. The language was another matter, but it was the best he could do.  
  
Logan.  
  
I must leave, but maybe I will someday return. Give my good-byes to others for me. Thank you for everything. I am sorry to hurt you, but I think it would be better for both of us of I leave.  
  
Remy  
  
Damn. Damn. Damn. Logan hadn't been expecting this, though in retrospect he didn't know why not. There had been some warning - the isolation, the awkwardness between them, the increasingly horrible nightmares that Logan was forced to listen to from across the hall without being able to provide comfort. Did the kid really think Logan was better off without him? Damn, damn, damn. 


	7. The End

PLZ RESPECT PRIVACY AND DO NOT READ  
  
LAST CHAPTER! I hope everyone enjoyed the show! Thanks for reviews, and more reviews are always welcome! And Marvel Comics still does not belong to me!  
  
Ch.7 - The End  
  
Westchester:  
  
Somehow, he'd ended up at square one again. Here he was, at the Mansion, with no idea where Remy had run off to. He convened with Scott, Jean, Storm, Hank and the Professor, and though all showed concern, none knew where he would have gone. The Professor attempted to find him with Cerebro, but as suspected, Remy's walls were strong enough to hide him. Logan and Scott checked the security camera, which showed Remy leaving, but gave no indication of destination. Jean, Hank, and Storm went over their interaction with the Cajun over the last several days, trying to comb it for hints, but they realized Remy was unlikely to make such a mistake. If he didn't want to be found, he wouldn't be. There were suggestions as to where he might have gone, but nothing with much evidence to support it.  
  
Logan didn't mention Rixt for the moment. He didn't want to have to return to her (though he had not returned to retrieve his motorcycle), though he knew he could swallow his pride if he thought there was no other choice; but he didn't think she'd help him. Not after the last time, not after failing Remy again, not after swearing to be there for him. Logan himself didn't even think he deserved a second (third?) chance. But some fool part of his mind figured that if he was able to find Remy on his own, it wouldn't count as another chance, but rather an extension of the last.  
  
By all rights, no one should have ever seen Remy again. At least not for many years, after which he may have returned. But lady luck - such an infrequent visitors of mutants in general - made an unexpected and wholly appreciated cameo appearance. Three days after Remy's departure, after much mounting frustration on the part of Logan, a letter arrived in the mail, addressed to Gambit. This was a rare enough occurrence at a sufficiently coincidental time that Logan decided to screw privacy (again).  
  
Dear Gambit.  
  
Another year has passed since you saved my life and once again I find myself grateful. So here is another thank you. I find myself haunted this time of year, by nightmares of killers. I imagine that you must be haunted by the ghosts of the dead. But in my nightmares you are still there to save me from fatal wounds, so here I am again to haunt you, and to remind you of the life you saved. It's not that I forgive you, but that forgiveness is irrelevant. The right thing is still out there to do.  
  
You are in my prayers, though I know no god.  
  
Marrow  
  
And just like that, Logan had a very good idea where Remy could be found.  
  
The Morlock Tunnels:  
  
He'd recognized the Cajun's sent even outside the cave, and he was filled with such relief that a silly grin came to his face. He had been in an agony of guilt and regret for the last three days and had been terrified that Remy would simply prove to gone and untraceable. Finding him here, in the tunnels, was proof that it wasn't too late; but he hurried anyway, following the younger man's pleasant, familiar sent through winding, poorly lit passageways until a hunched, darken figure came into view.  
  
He ran and crouched beside him. Remy's arms were wrapped around his knees and his head was cradled in the circle they created. He was as still as a rock, but as Logan reached to touch him, he heard a soft, cracked voice. "Ne touche pas. Ne me touche pas. [Don't touch. Don't touch me.]"  
  
"Remy. . . what are you doing here? Surely there is nothing for you here." Logan was, in fact, deeply concerned about Remy's decision to come to the tunnels - they were his weakness, his Achilles' heel. It did neither spoke well nor boded well for Remy's sanity. At least, that's what Logan figured.  
  
"Rems, sweetie, look at me."  
  
After a long pause, Remy's tear stained but expressionless face looked up to his. Still, Logan was relieved, seeing that Remy didn't appear to have regressed to the point of unresponsiveness (Logan was gradually recognizing a tendency to assume the worst with regards to the object of his affections). Logan reached out for him again, but Remy leaned away and scrambled to unsteady feet.  
  
Angrily, blinking through tears, he snarled, "Qu'est ce que tu veux? Pourquoi est ce que tu est ici?. . . Salaud! [What do you want? Why are you here? . . . Bastard!]" Then he turned his face away.  
  
If Logan was surprised by what seemed to be Remy's sudden ability to speak French, he did not show it, though he did take a moment to revel in the sound of his whiskey and smoke voice, sexy even when it was contorted in anger. However, he had learned long ago that the Cajun was full of surprises, and he didn't think that now was the appropriate time to question him on it (in truth, the French had returned two nights earlier after waking from a particularly graphic and realistic nightmare about his childhood). Still, Logan had no idea how to handle the situation, and for about the thousandth time in the last couple of months, he wished his people skills were more than the bare minimum. So he decided to precede as usual and, after rising to his feet too, got straight to the point.  
  
"You should come home."  
  
Remy's eyebrows shot up, then gradually settled into a frown. Dieu, why was he here? Why did he have to make this more difficult than it already was? Finally he brought his hands up to chest level and signed, "The Mansion is not home." A slightly manic smile grew on his face. "Am home here with the ghosts."  
  
Remy laughed, but again there was a manic edge to it, and he began to stroll through the tunnel with arms outstretched. Logan considered him for a moment, but when he began to slowly spin around, he walked to him and caught him in his arms to still him. And, for a few moments, he was still, though his eyes still burned wildly. "Remy," he said as gently and convincingly as he could. "This is not your home. It's a fucking cesspool of memories trying to drive you crazy."  
  
The last words caused to Remy to jerk away, but he did not return to spinning. He stood still, pondering the wall of the tunnel, as Logan pondered him. "Mais je suis déjà fou [But I am already crazy] . . .," he said more to himself than Logan.  
  
Logan looked more closely at the tunnel wall Remy was staring at and saw that it looked as if it if had been subject to a small explosion. "J'ai fait ça. [I did that.]" Remy approached the section of the wall, then bent and laid himself of the uneven ground. He raised his dirty shirt, exposing a smooth torso marred three parallel scars, courtesy of the Marauders. He spread his arms and legs then said, "Ici. . . Ici, Remy est senti la morte. Et a voulu mourir. [Here Remy felt death. And wanted to die.]"  
  
He closed his eyes and was deathly still for several long moments. He tried to clear his chaotic mind (though his grasp of French had brought with it an increased mental order), and imagined that he was dead. He tried to create a complete emptiness within him and one word (surprisingly, in English) floated through his mind - peace. He slowed his breathing and felt his pulse calm. Logan came and crouched next to him, observing him, wanting to speak to him in a way that would get through to him. Finally, "You're not a ghost yet, sweetie. I know 'cause you ain't dead. And you can't be here, you're disturbing their rest. They don't want to be plagued by the living anymore than we want to be plagued by them. They do not blame you, Remy, they're dead, and the dead do not mourn the passing of their lives. You are helping no one by being here, not even yourself. . . Please Rems, you don't belong here."  
  
After a pause, there was a long sigh. "Mais où? [But where?]," he whispered plaintively, eyes still closed. He was so tired of searching.  
  
Then Logan did something that astonished even himself - and something that certainly never would've taken place if he'd taken even a fraction of a moment to think about it. He leaned forward to the corpselike figure and whispered roughly in his ear. "Avec moi. [With me.]" And before a startled Remy could react beyond opening his eyes, Logan kissed him. It was a simple kiss, but it was given permanence through longevity, lasting several seconds.  
  
He pulled away slowly, their eyes locked, and a pregnant pause ensued, each waiting for the other to do something to destroy the moment, along with the hope of imagined futures that couldn't help be spring to mind. And the moment stretched. Logan's mind caught up with him and told him that his timing was even worse now, that Remy was obviously not thinking clearly, that he was taking advantage of him; but better judgement had learned from the last debacle and convinced him that pulling away now, again, would do far more harm than good. Besides, he really wanted to . . . what, he wasn't sure. To kiss his love, and hold him, and to make everything alright somehow. But after last time, he didn't know if Remy would have him. Despite having practically lived his life, Logan still didn't understand Remy. Especially now, as he was rebuilding himself.  
  
Remy, on the other hand, bit back tears and waited for the other shoe to drop. He forced himself not to reach out to feel Logan's emotions, not wanting to feel the rush of hope that had to be provoked by Logan's love, nor the sickening afterfeeling from Logan's guilt. When the silence became unbearable, he pushed Logan away and scrambled to his feet. He might not deserve Logan, but he didn't deserve to be jerked around like this either. Glaring down at the feral man, his hands angrily demanding to know what he was waiting for.  
  
"What?" Though he had a sneaking suspicion what Remy meant.  
  
"Surely you have had time to convince yourself how wrong what you just did is? But this is my room. It is you who must run away this time." Remy's hands were shaking as he signed, and his words were difficult to make out. When he finished, he brought his hands down to his sides, clenched in fists, just as his jaw was clenched and his whole body tense.  
  
Suddenly Logan was confused. Did Remy think Logan had behaved wrongly? But now was not a time for miscommunication. He followed Remy to his feet and, carefully looking him in the eye, asked, "Do you think it was wrong?"  
  
A long pause, a resigned sigh, then tired hands responded. "No. But does what I think matter?"  
  
"Yes." Deciding he'd heard the encouragement he needed, Logan closed the distance between them, took an unresisting Remy into his arms, and kissed him again; but this time he poured his feelings into it, holding the thin body tightly, a hand in silky hair, tongue caressing lips for a moment until those lips parted welcomingly. His tongue ravished Remy's mouth, tasting of vanilla and mint, and his teeth nibbled a perfect, luscious bottom lip. Remy failed to stifle a whimper of simultaneous relief and desperation, and Logan growled back in want before breaking the kiss.  
  
Logan stared into the black and red eyes, like coals in a fire, but they were glazed with lust, as he was sure his own were. He felt a hunger rage within him, stoked now to a peak by a taste of the forbidden fruit he so desperately craved. If he hadn't spent a lifetime battling to control his urges, he would've had to take Remy then and there, the drive to mate was so strong. But as it was, he buried his face into the taller man's neck and held him, inhaling his comforting sent, and forced the urge to fade.  
  
Remy stroked his hair, his shoulders, his back, soothing Logan's animal. Whatever emotional pain Logan was capable of unwittingly inflicting, Remy was secure in hie knowledge that Logan would not physically hurt him. Would not take him against his will. After all, Logan loved him, he could feel it, and he allowed himself to revel in that love as he had done in the early days of his recovery. It was a delicate moment, for while Remy probably would've been able to deal with his fear, Logan would've been able to smell it on him, and Logan wouldn't have been able to deal with his fear. Remy's fear would've been the one thing that would've destroyed him, that would've sent him running far, far away. But there was no fear, and though Remy did not dare hope, not seriously, he was still willing to give Logan another chance. How could he, after all, refuse what he most desperately wanted when it came knocking, no matter how many times it had knocked before without coming in?  
  
After a couple of minutes like this, Logan lifted his head and his rough, still somewhat lustful voice asked, "Can't we leave this tomb now Rems?" And Remy nodded.  
  
Westchester:  
  
As soon as Remy had shakily stepped into the daylight, it was obvious to Logan that he hadn't eaten or slept in days. So Logan stuffed a Domino's pizza in Remy's mouth and convinced him, completely unnecessarily, to sleep in the backseat of his truck's cab during the long drive back to the Mansion. He woke groggily when Logan shook him and was completely unprepared to deal with the questioning faces of Storm, Jubilee, Jean, and Scott (and Bobby in the background). He used Logan as a shield, face down to avoid uncomfortable eye contact, and Logan muttered assurances that everything was alright. But there was one voice Remy couldn't hide from.  
  
*Remy! Are you okay?*  
  
He made no outward signs of hearing as he and Logan proceeded up the stairs and through the door, despite harassment from Cyke. But he did finally respond when they reached the staircase. *Je ne sais pas, mais je crois que je suis bien, finalement. Fatigué, mais bien. [I don't know, but I think I'm finally good. Tired, but good.]*  
  
Jean smiled to herself and reached arms out to Scott and Storm to stop them from following the retreating pair. "Leave them, for now. Remy's okay."  
  
Upstairs, Remy and Logan stopped outside their doors and an awkwardness ensued. Remy supposed it was his turn to step up to bat. "Chez moi? Ou chez chez toi? [My place? Or yours?]" It was said flippantly, seductively, but it was the hint of nervousness underneath that provoked Logan to gather Remy in his arms and stare into his eyes and growl in an awful accent with a predatory smile, "Chez toi, mon amour."  
  
He brushed their noses together, their cheeks too, loving Remy's smell. He nibbled a perfect ear and felt Remy's warm tongue on his neck. "Hmmm . . . My sexy baby."  
  
Remy laughed and pulled away, tugging Logan towards his door. Remy's room, with his luxuriously large bed, was definitely the better choice, but his first stop after days in the dirty tunnels was the shower. When he got out, Logan was already asleep, worn out from driving and from his ordeal with Remy, with all traces of his usual roughness gone and most of his clothes pooled at the foot of the bed. Remy felt his heart expand painfully and he thought he might cry from the strength of his emotions - of love and accursed hope. He crawled into the bed and curled into Logan's willing arms. Heady waves of contentment quickly ushered him to sleep.  
  
EPILOGUE  
  
WARNING: Sex. Rather graphic slashy sex, to be specific. If you're not interested, then this is not for you. (Mwahahaha! It's for me of course!)  
  
Logan woke to early morning rays and someone nuzzling his hair. Someone who smelled like soap, and like home. Someone who smelled aroused. A trace of guilt passed through his mind fleetingly, but he banished it and he allowed his face to break into a wide grin as he turned himself over to gaze into his love's sleepy, blinking eyes. He sniffed at Remy's neck and nipped at it. When he looked back up, Remy was wide awake and a small, affectionate smile graced his lips. Logan grinned back, then returned to the task at hand: to find the rather obvious source of that fantastic smell...  
  
He pulled away the blankets and looked hungrily at Remy's boxer clad arousal. "Yum, yum," he joked, and Remy laughed. But humor disappeared and Remy gasped as Logan bent down to rub his face along Remy's length, inhaling the musky, male scent of his lover. God. It was so intoxicating he released a low growl from deep within, his hands tracing his lover's soft skin, marred by the occasional scar. He looked up again to see hooded, lustful eyes. He had no idea how Remy was able to be so . . . normal about sex after all that he had been through, but he wasn't about to question their good luck. As for Remy, there had been so much horror in the past that sex no longer held any demons he had not already fought and conquered a dozen times. He knew it could be beautiful and amazing, and he hoped this would be one of those times.  
  
"You'll tell me if I overstep my boundaries, right Gumbo?" Remy smiled and nodded, though he doubted he could ever refuse Logan, even if wanted to - which he didn't. So he scooted down the bed and claimed Logan's lips in a passionate kiss. They pressed their bodies together and both moaned, breaking the liplock for a moment to breath heavily. Remy's hands sneaked up and pinched Logan's nipples, to which he responded by pushing Remy down on the bed and ravishing his mouth; but when a smooth, nimble - sexy - hand reached through his own boxers and grabbed his impatient, aching organ, it was all he could do to move with it. A strange, but intensely erotic tingling began to vibrate through his groin, and it took him several thrusts for his lust muddled mind to figure out what it was - Remy was lightly charging him, and the thrill of danger that came with that knowledge, combined with weeks of stress and pent up desire, instantly drove him to release.  
  
Several moments recovering allowed him open his eyes to meet Remy's amused expression as the Cajun lay propped up by his elbow, watching him. "What's so funny?," he growled playfully. "Don't look so smug. You haven't seen the last of me yet. Have I told you about ALL the benefits of a healing factor?"  
  
Remy looked briefly surprised, but his smile quickly returned. A breathless "Oui?" prompted Logan to once again push him onto his back. They kissed again as calloused fingers found and rolled Remy's small sexy nipples, causing him to moan and arch in Logan's body, where again they could feel each other's arousals. With a less demanding erection, Logan revisited Remy's swollen hard on. He stripped off Remy's boxers, and after a quick flash of eye contact to make sure everything was alright, he took the smooth, firm, exquisite flesh into his mouth.  
  
It would be difficult to say which was hotter, Logan's mouth or Remy's erection. Remy's breathing came in short gasps and Logan sucked eagerly, his hands caressing Remy's hips and thighs and balls. He savored the taste of sweet pre-cum and was, eventually, amazed at his lover's staying power; but the small part of his brain that was still thinking rationally suggested the truth - that years of abuse had left some traces, if only in his body's hesitance to find release in sexual pleasure. But Logan didn't mind. Teasing pleasure from the beautiful, mistreated body before him was far more a luxury than a chore, and he would do so enthusiastically. Still, he had an idea . . .  
  
The loss of Logan's fiery mouth and the cool air on his wet manhood sent shivers through Remy's body and he opened his eyes to meet Logan's. "I have an idea," Logan said thoughtfully as Remy blinked dazedly at him. "Remy, would you open your walls to me?"  
  
Again, a look of surprise crossed Remy's face, but this time it was quickly followed by a guarded expression and the faint smell of fear. "Don't! Be afraid I mean . . ." He hurried on nervously, despite the obvious fading of Remy's arousal. "It's just that, uh, I want to feel what you feel. I want to be convinced that you're okay. And I want you to feel how strongly I feel about you. Ever since you were in my mind, I've felt as though I've been missing a part of me that I never before realized I'd been missing. And maybe the same is true for you. Maybe part of what you're missing can be found in me . . . "  
  
The silenced stretched and almost evolved into a sound in its own right; and Remy continued to stare at him stonily. Damn, damn, damn. Had he blown it? "I'm sorry, it was a stupid idea, forget it - "  
  
"Non," Remy whispered hoarsely, forcing himself to act, to react, to make decisions. Logan was right, it might prove helpful or orientating. And, somewhere underneath all the fear, there was some basic instinct that wanted it - that wanted nothing more to than to be as close as possible to the one who had become everything to him. "Nous pouvons le faire, si tu veux. [We can do it, if you want.]"  
  
Now it was Logan's turn to hesitate. "Not if you don't want to."  
  
With a frustrated sigh (Logan's constant pussyfooting was really beginning to irritate him, but it was a conversation for later), Remy pulled Logan back towards him, and as their lips met, he opened his walls to him, pushing away his fear and focusing of his love and his faded desire. Then it was Logan's turn to gasp as powerful, and recognizable but still foreign emotions flooded through him. His own emotions flowed to Remy, stoking his lust and creating a positive feedback loop. Within moments he was hard again, but he couldn't tear his eyes from Logan's, who was looking at him (with preternatural focus) as though he had only just then recognized him for who he truly was. "It is you," he mumbled, but Remy didn't get the chance to respond before his lips were devoured again, and his tongue sucked from his mouth.  
  
Logan's hands returned to Remy's thin waist, then to his balls, as Remy's fingers dug into his back. Finally, under the growing pressure of desire, Logan brought his lips to Remy's ear and whispered roughly, "I want you inside me."  
  
This time he could feel Remy's surprise course through them both, but he took Remy's sudden peak of excitement and desire as an affirmative. Indeed, Remy only agreed, emotionally, because he could feel Logan's desire to be real. Logan pushed himself vertical, knees on either side of Remy's waist. He gazed into Remy's magnificent, dilated eyes, and then, with a little clever use of his hands (as Remy's couldn't be pried from their white knuckle grip on the sheets), he slowly sunk onto Remy's spit covered manhood.  
  
The emotions between them lost all coherence as their frantic passions mingled. Logan was so tight that Remy thought for a moment he would pass out, but the further pleasure that blazed forth with Logan's subsequent movements proved him wrong. "Tu vas bien?," he croaked.  
  
Logan barely heard him, but he forced himself to nod. The pain was brief and welcome: somehow the experience wouldn't be as fulfilling without a little spice of pain. He lifted himself, then brought himself down again, groaning with pleasure as Remy filled hiim and hit his prostate. Together they established a rhythm, neither fast nor slow, despite their loud, erratic breathing.  
  
Finally, Remy grasped Logan's swollen, neglected erection, and a second, more powerful orgasm hit, ripping a howl from his throat. His muscles clenched around Remy and Logan's orgasm engulfed him through their shared emotions, finally pushing the moaning younger man into his own glorious release.  
  
An hour later found them still dozing, arms and legs entwined.  
  
"Remy, I love you," Logan muttered sleepily.  
  
Remy opened his eyes, then blinked several times, focusing him mind enough to respond . . . But something was different and a small smile formed on his lips. "Je sais. Je t'aime aussi. [I know. I love you too.] . . . I, I love you Logan."  
  
Logan's eyes widened. "Did it work?," he asked incredulously. He hadn't honestly expected anything from their emotional bonding; but, then again, he had never been able to understand the workings of telepaths, let alone empaths.  
  
Remy grinned happily. "Yes, I t'ink it did, un peu. A bit."  
  
"That's fantastic!" Logan crushed him in a bear hug.  
  
"Don't kill me! I just learned to talk! Je ne veux pas mourir! [I don't want to die!]," he laughed.  
  
A seriousness came over Logan and he gazed into Remy's eyes. "You better not."  
  
"I don't." The shy smile on his face earned him a passionate and heartfelt kiss.  
  
"Good to hear Gumbo." 


End file.
